Travelogue
by First Noelle
Summary: Jackson is dead and Lisa is moving on with her life. She is strong, optimistic, and full of plans. Life, however, has a different plan for Lisa, and she learns that reality isn't always what it appears to be. POV.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first attempt at fan fiction. I welcome constructive criticism. That doesn't mean I will like it, but I would like to know where/how I can improve and whether or not I should even keep trying. Thanks for your patience._

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters.**

**Travelogue**

**By First Noelle**

**Chapter 1**

My psychologist, Dr. Finch, has suggested from the start that I begin keeping a journal. I have resisted because I really don't want to dwell on the past. I have moved on with life and I don't really see any sense in going back over the traumatic events of this past year.

I've made some major changes in the months since Jackson Rippner stepped cleverly and elegantly into my life that night aboard the red eye flight from Dallas. I use those words deliberately because now, from the distance of many months, I can detach myself from the situation enough to be able to appreciate the mastermind intellect behind the man who terrorized me so competently throughout that night and on into the next morning.

Another reason I can detach so well from this is because Jackson Rippner is dead. The ambulance crew at the house looked very grim that morning, and shook their heads as they shuffled Jackson's body onto a stretcher and into the back of a waiting ambulance. "He's dead in the water, but we have to look like we're making an effort," one of them quietly told my father. We were told later that Jackson died before they reached the hospital.

The funny thing about a trauma like that: you can know something to be absolutely true and still doubt yourself. I mean, I saw Jackson Rippner's body after the shotgun blast. Various law enforcement officials later confirmed his death for us, from the local cops on up to Charles Keefe's people at the national level. In my rational mind, I know the man is dead. Even my father has no doubts about his death. And yet, in my heart of hearts, I expect to see Jackson Rippner around every corner I turn, in every crowd I pass through, and lurking somewhere within every shadow.

This is the nature, Dr. Finch says, of posttraumatic stress disorder. This is how it manifests in me. I don't have many of the classic signs of PTSD. For instance, I do not dream about the events of that long night. In fact my appetite is good and I sleep amazingly well. This surprises me because after I was attacked way back before Flight 1019, it seems I did not sleep for weeks. True, sometimes a specific snapshot memory will flash before my eyes, and I will feel briefly panicked, but it always passes and I make it a point not to obsess over either those memories or the feelings attached to them.

Dr. Finch seems to think some of those feelings need to be addressed, but I'm not sure I agree with her. It's when we discuss this aspect of the PTSD that she usually brings up the idea of a journal. She tells me that once I work through the memories and feelings, I will quit expecting to see Jackson just about every time I open my eyes.

But I'm fine, really. I have moved on with my life and I continue to recover. I took a month off from my job at the Lux Atlantic. Dad and I spent a lot of time together healing during that month. He continues to live in the house I grew up in, the house where so much violence took place last year. He says the happy memories of the past there outweigh the more recent, brutal memories. He respects my decision to continue living on my own even though it is hard for him. He wants to watch over me every moment and be there to protect me, but he has settled for going over my apartment with a security expert. I now have the most up to date security system on the market, and he comes over weekly to test it.

My life is well balanced now and I am content, if not happy. I see my psychologist weekly, I work out three times a week (I've taken up kick-boxing), and I have even gone out on a few official dates recently.

Matthew is the sous-chef at the Lux, and hopes to be able to open his own restaurant here in Miami sometime next year. He is brilliant and indisputably hot; he treats me with kindness and respect. I enjoy being with him. For now, though, it seems to make sense to me to keep things casual, and Matthew seems to respect that.

My job at the Lux is going very smoothly. I'm planning to go back to college in the fall to take some classes in hotel administration, and I recently signed up for a weeklong hotel management seminar. Because the seminar is being held at the Lux in New York, it has meant that I must board an airplane for the first time since the disastrous red eye flight.

I faced that an hour ago, actually, and very successfully, too. Armed with the little bottle of happy pills Dr. Finch insisted I take, and seen off just outside the airport by my father, Cynthia and Matthew, I made it through the gate, across the concourse, and onto the airplane without even so much as a racing heart.

Outside my window seat, it is a brilliant spring day. No one is sitting beside me. The closest passenger, an elderly woman engrossed in a book, is sitting two seats ahead of me. No one that I saw boarding with me or that I can see from where I am sitting even remotely resembles the man with the cold blue eyes that was the source of my terror so many months ago.

And so for the first time, I suddenly and truly believe that Jackson Rippner is dead. And while I feel sad for him, for the destructive choices he made in his own life that led him to that point, I can't help but feel relieved. I feel no guilt over his death. It is over and I can look to the future now.

I open this brand new spiral notebook; I take out a fresh Bic pen; and I begin my journal. I will not need the happy pills – this I know. And although I plan on avoiding the bathroom on this airplane as much as possible, I feel good. I feel strong and optimistic.

_My psychologist has extolled the benefits of journaling to a point where I began to believe that it must be a tremendous psychological tool. It may even be a lifesaver for those in desperate need of saving, like those on the very edge of losing their sanity. _

That is why I am putting pen to paper at this moment. My own sanity is hanging on by a thread. I am desperate. If this will save me, I'm for it.

_Let me start by noting that at this moment I am not at a hotel management convention in New York City. I am in Prague, in the Czech Republic. _

My stay in New York was brief - perhaps a two-hour tour of duty at the very most. But that was a good twenty-four hours ago. Right now I am sitting at a table in a very nice hotel suite and Jackson Rippner is sprawled in a chair across the room from me.


	2. Chapter 2

_Your reviews have been very kind. I very much appreciate them. And I'd like to say that I do not own Red Eye or the characters!_

Chapter 2

My flight arrived in New York slightly behind schedule thanks to a strong head wind. Apparently a storm was brewing, because we landed late that afternoon in a gray world, and I have to admit that my optimistic mood dimmed just a bit, along with the sunlight.

I hurried through the airport. The hotel was supposed to be sending a limo for me and because I work in the hotel industry myself, I wanted to be as close to on time as possible. I don't like inconveniencing people. Luckily I only had a carry on bag, so I didn't have to wait at the luggage carousel, but I did stop briefly to freshen up on the way out.

I looked at myself in the mirror and took a deep breath, struggling to regain my earlier optimism. It was travel fatigue, I decided. Nothing more. I'd be glad to get to my hotel room and change out of my traveling skirt and sweater into my pajama pants and top. I decided a book, a room service dinner, and an early bedtime sounded really good. I wanted to feel refreshed and energized tomorrow morning for the start of the seminar, with hopefully enough energy left over to do some shopping later, if we got out early enough.

Outside the airport, yellow cabs and limos waited impatiently, if the honks and hand gestures meant anything. I scanned the sidewalk anxiously and finally spotted a tall thin man of middle age in a crisp black suit standing beside one of the limos holding up a sign that read, "Lux New York". Relieved, I hurried toward him.

He checked my name against a list, took my bag from me, andheld the door as I climbed into the back seat Another passenger was already seated inside. She was about my age, with medium brown hair. Like me, she was wearing a casual skirt and a sweater set. I could see that she was studying a sheaf of papers that looked identical to the ones in my leather attaché case. She looked up as I settled into my seat.

"Hotel management seminar?" I asked tentatively.

She smiled. "Yes. You, too?"

"Yes." I offered her my hand. "Lisa Reisert. I work for the Lux Atlantic in Miami."

"Marty Hall." She took my hand. "Four Seasons, Dallas. I'm the catering manager."

"Very glad to meet you. Actually, isn't Four Seasons in Las Colinas?"

"Well yes, but most people have never heard of Las Colinas, so we just say Dallas. Are you from Texas?"

Before I could answer, our driver climbed into the front seat and turned to say, "I have one more pick-up. It's a private jet and should be on the ground by now."

We both assured him this wasn't a problem, and he swung into the traffic.

We wound around through the airport, past the commercial airline gates, and eventually reached an area dotted with airfreight businesses, aeronautic companies, and private hangars. We rolled to a stop in front of a very large hangar with what looked like an office extension built onto the side of it. The hangar doors were closed. Our driver parked and disappeared through a side door only to reappear almost immediately.

He leaned across the front seat and said, "Looks like the plane is running behind and won't be on the ground for about half an hour. I'm sorry to make you two wait. There's a nice office inside with coffee and soft drinks, though, if you don't mind waiting in there."

Marty and I looked at one another. I was thinking that I'd prefer waiting in the car, but Marty said, "That's be great. I'd love to find a lady's room."

"Sure. That's not a problem at all," I completely understood the need for that little amenity, and was thinking that coffee actually sounded pretty good.

Inside I saw a large carpeted area populated with a couple of desks, a small sink, a cabinet and a refrigerator. A couple of couches and comfortable chairs were spaced evenly throughout the room. The coffee maker beside the sink was not plugged in and I saw no vending machines. The office area itself opened directly onto the hangar. Inside the hanger, although no overhead lights burned, I could see what looked like a monster-sized jet.

Before Flight 1019, I was not by nature a suspicious person. It makes sense to me to be a little more observant these days, though, and right then my instincts went on red alert. I turned to Marty, but saw that she had lagged behind me and was now closing the outside door firmly behind her. I swung my head back towards the limo driver, but he had disappeared somewhere into the hangar's cavernous gloom.

Someone else was emerging from the gloom, however. A man of average height approached, walking with a barely discernable limp, and I felt a sudden frisson of something I couldn't immediately define. I couldn't make out his facial features, but as it turned out I didn't have to. His first, slightly hoarse words made his identity devastatingly clear.

"Why Leese," Jackson Rippner said. "Are you stalking me again?"

The security of the past six months flew off of me like seeds scattered to the wind. The unease I'd felt for all these months had, it seemed, been there for a reason. The unease had tried to warn me, but I had chosen to ignore it. And yet I felt no real surprise. My psyche had known all along that he still lived, that he still breathed.

I whirled and bolted for the door. And came up short to face Marty, my co-passenger, my fellow hotel management colleague. Marty, who now leaned against that door, barring my way. Marty, who now had a handgun trained on my head.

No doubt there are brave souls in this world who, upon coming face to face with a gun, opt to take their chances and run for it. I am not one of them. I froze. And before I could formulate any kind of alternate plan, a steely arm snaked around my waist from behind. Jackson Rippner pulled me with snug familiarity up against him.

"Now calm down," he said soothingly, as one would say to a child afraid of the monster beneath the bed. "You're trembling like a leaf."

"I'm calm," I managed to say. And considering the circumstances, I felt I even managed to say it with a decent composure. "Why aren't you dead?"

"I'm hard to kill," I felt him shrug slightly behind me.

"What do you want with me, Rippner? Why have you brought me here?"

"Well, let's think about that for a minute, Leese. You stabbed me, your father shot me, and you completely fucked up my last job. In my business, I don't get to fail. So I'd say that you and I aren't finished yet. We have some loose ends to tie up." He shifted behind me and I felt his hand brush my hair gently away from my neck. The gesture felt intimate and obscene. Then I felt a sudden sharp sting. It felt like a bee sting. I gasped out loud and my arm flew up reflexively toward my neck.

Or rather it tried to fly up – my arm was moving very slowly. I looked at my hand, confused. I glanced across at Marty. She continued to watch me impassively from the door and she held the handgun steady. Then my vision blurred and I knew he had drugged me.

Had he killed me? Even thinking seemed hard now. But as the paralysis spread, panic began to overwhelm me. I couldn't fight. I couldn't move my arms or my legs. My mind cried out that I didn't want to die and I wonder if I said the words out loud because I heard Jackson say, as he held me firmly even as my body tried to sag toward the floor, "You won't die today."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and I don't get paid for this._

_Also, many thanks to Deathwing8 for your help. You are invaluable!_

Chapter 3

There is something to be said for oblivion. I'd always prided myself on living in the truth, but as I began to surface from the drug induced depths, as each new level of consciousness brought a new awareness, I found myself thinking that maybe truth was way overrated. Right now my body felt languid and heavy, and I was aware of a steady, humming, soothing noise, sort of like the sound an air conditioner unit makes. Sleep beckoned me back with a seductive wave and I wasn't ready to float all the way to the surface just yet. So I slept again.

I had a friend once who used to say cryptically that you can't un-know what you know. That statement makes sense to me now, because when I rose to consciousness for a second time what I wanted to un-know but couldn't was the reality of a living, breathing, and infinitely dangerous Jackson Rippner.

Still, I thought I might stretch it out a little bit, keep my eyes closed. I needed time to think, to plan, to gather my strength and wits.

But Jackson had other plans.

"Snap out of it, Lisa. We have work to do."

My eyes flew open and I found myself looking into his eyes. I forced my gaze away from him, glanced around me. I was sitting in a comfortable reclining seat in a nicely furnished, but unmistakably airborne, office. The jet engines hummed nicely in the background, and by the absence of light outside the windows, I could see it was evening. The lighting in the cabin was dim. Rippner sat facing me and a small worktable bridged the gap between us. I could see other, unoccupied seats to my left. We appeared to be alone in the cabin.

Finally, I let my glance rest on the man sitting across from me. Lest anyone think this was easy, let me assure you that it is no simple task to sit with a semblance of calm facing a man who had tried at least once to kill you. Of course, to be honest, the drugs that were still in my system did help me with this.

It was startling to look at him. I've noticed that our memories seldom match up when held side by side to the real thing, but in this case that wasn't true. He scared me just as much now as he did then.

My breath caught in my throat when I glanced again at those spooky, eerie eyes. They looked cold and bottomless. I remembered that in the beginning, before the nightmare began, I'd found them fascinating, had thought his face, while not classically handsome, increasingly intriguing.

Now, while the memories matched up feature for feature, the interpretation was sadly lacking. What seemed so appealing then just looked frightening now. But then I'd been drinking a bit that first time around.

His hair looked much the same – brown, medium length, but I thought he looked thinner than before. Maybe he'd had a tough convalescence. If so, I felt no sympathy. He wore a business suit with a pin striped shirt and no tie. And this time there was no pretense to his manner – no lighthearted, manipulative flirtation. Right now Jackson just seemed hostile.

"I need you awake and alert," His voice was terse. "Can you do that?"

"I'm awake." My mouth was desert dry; my voice came out croaky. "Where am I and what time is it?"

"It's close to midnight eastern time and you're over the Atlantic. Want something to drink?"

"Yeah," I said, thinking that maybe this was just a little bit too much reality for me right now. "Water would be great."

I stirred in my seat, tried to flex my arms and found I couldn't. Thin strips of plastic bound my wrists to the chair's arms.

Jackson pushed away from the table, saying, "I'll cut those off first."

"I'd appreciate that," I said. "Why did you feel the need to tie me? I was unconscious, Jackson. Were you worried I'd sleepwalk?"

"I needed to sleep, too. I was worried you'd wake up and kill me." A knife came out of his pocket and I looked away quickly. I felt him kneel down beside me. He clamped my hand down with his and I concentrated hard, determined not to flinch. I felt cold sharp metal slide between my skin and the thin strip of plastic as I gazed out into the inky night. He freed my other hand, and when I dared look again, he'd placed a bottle of water on the table and was seated once more.

"So," I took a deep, shaky breath. "You said we needed to talk. Let's talk."

"Right." Jackson settled back in his seat and made a steeple with his fingers. He was every inch the man of business. "The most important thing you need to be clear about right now is this: we're about 45,000 feet above the ocean. This jet belongs to me, and I'm paying the pilot, so nobody is going to benefit here if you decide to go Chuck Norris on me in a well meant but misguided effort to save the day. Unless you have a pilot's license qualifying you to fly a Gulfstream and I'm guessing you don't."

"Fine. I'm just going to sit here. Drink my water." I grabbed my water, unscrewed the cap and drank. Frankly, I wasn't feeling up to heroics just then anyway. "Just where exactly are we going, or is that something you're not ready to share?"

"Well, the Cliff Notes version is, we're going to Prague. I have a business transaction to wrap up there."

"Another assassination target? Who do you plan to take out this time?"

"No, actually nothing that high profile. I'm taking a little break from that kind of work, thanks to you," he sneered.

"I'm glad I could help."

I wished it unsaid almost immediately because Jackson jumped all over it. "Are you? Well that's good. Because you being helpful, frankly, is the only reason you're alive right now."

His eyes flashed and he bit his lip. He seemed to vibrate with anger. I shrank back into my seat and watched him try to rein his temper in. I hoped he wasn't about to fly across the table at me. I'd been trapped in close quarters with a furious Jackson before, had felt his hands closing around my throat.

"You know what, Lisa? I'll be up front with you here. I have very mixed feelings about you right now. I'm a businessman. I'm a professional and I'm very good at what I do. I can't afford to let my personal feelings interfere with my job and I don't do that. I never do that. What happened in your father's house – that wasn't personal. I was just tying up loose ends. But right now? _Personally_, I am really, really pissed off at you.

"I hate to fail. I do not fail!" He thumped the table so hard his folder of papers jumped and so did I. "Right now my reputation is on the line because of you and my reputation is everything to me. So let's be really clear about this, Lisa. Let's communicate honestly. You will not fuck this one up for me. Are we clear on this?"

"I… yea… we're clear. Fine. Yea. But…"

"But what?"

"I'm don't understand why I'm here."

"You're a condition of the sale." Rippner smiled, although on him it just looked evil.

"Excuse me?"

"No Lisa, no deal. And I care as much about customer satisfaction as you do, so here you are. But-" He glanced down at his watch. "We'll be landing to refuel in about an hour and we need to talk through and defuse any potential escape plans you might be hatching. Are you hungry? You slept through dinner."

I longed for my earlier oblivion. I remembered Dr. Finch's happy pills in my handbag. I wondered just where my handbag was, actually.

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"Eat, Lisa. You need to keep your strength up."

"Why? Why should I bother?" I toyed with the plastic wrapper from the turkey sandwich he'd served up. The sandwich tasted like dust to me.

"You sound discouraged. That really isn't like you. "

"Well, you know, Jackson, I am just a little bit discouraged right now. You've drugged me and dragged me out of the country. I think that's a pretty normal reaction on my part."

"Well, buck up. We've got a long way to go."

"How long have you been planning this? "

"You mean stealing you? For a while. You signing up for that management seminar made it a lot easier. I do admire your professional ambition, Leese."

"How did that make it easier, Jackson?"

"For one thing, no one will notice you're gone for a while. It's even possible, if things go well and I get over being pissed off at you, that you'll be back in New York in time to fly home next Sunday afternoon."

"You don't think anyone will miss me before then, Jack? It didn't occur to you that people might try to call me, that when I didn't answer my cell they might try the hotel and they'd find out I never even checked in?"

"But you did check in, Leese."

"What?"

"Someone looking a lot like you, carrying your driver's license and credit card, has checked in at the Lux New York. She is there now with your suitcase, your clothes, and she is attending the seminar you signed up for."

"Marty." Of course. The woman in the limo. She'd even been dressed like me. How could I have not seen that? But then obviously I hadn't had a reason to suspect then.

"Right. That's the name she gave you. And if someone gets worried because they can't get you on your cell, they can call the Lux New York and leave a message for you. That message will be forwarded to me and I will see that you get it." He reached down, came up with my handbag, rummaged around in it, and pulled out my cell phone.

"You can call them back on this. I hope you have a good plan. You're going to have a lot of roaming charges. And you will do your best to allay any fears any of them have, whether it's your father, or Cynthia, or even that sweet little short order cook, you've been going out with. It'll take a little acting on your part but I think you're up to it."

"And why is it exactly that you think I'll be so cooperative over the phone? What is it you are holding over my head this time, Jackson? Have you got someone sitting outside my father's house again?"

"It's an open ended invitation this time, Lisa. There's no time limit, no house to rush home to, no long drawn out struggles, knifings or shootings. I hope you're not disappointed. I know how you love to charge in and save the day.

"It's really pretty simple. If this job doesn't go the way I want it to, your father will die and so will you. You can run as far as you want, you can change your name and how you look, but you can't hide from me. I will catch up with you - and your father and mother, too. If I die, Lisa, there are others lined up behind me to see that it is done. You're bad for business. You can't expect mercy from me, or from my colleagues. Ever.

"So. Bearing that in mind, I expect you to make it your personal mission to help make this deal a success. You're in the middle of it now and you'd better hope it succeeds."

Just then, when I thought for sure I was headed into a bottomless abyss of despair, I noticed something that made me smile. In the middle of Jackson's throat was about an inch of scar tissue. I thought about how it got there and I smiled again. I picked up my sandwich and began to eat.

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That scar got me through a rough landing in a stormy day at the airport outside of Prague and through customs where I presented a passport bearing the name "Marty Hall." I did nothing to alert the authorities there, and I rode quietly through the slick streets of a gray city in a silver airport taxi with Jackson. I spoke up only when he booked us into the Four Seasons. I demanded separate bedrooms. I got separate beds in the same room and had to make do with that.

I slept for a few hours once we were upstairs. Terror is deeply fatiguing and I sank almost immediately into a deep, dreamless void. Judging from the creases in the covers of his bed, I assume Jackson slept as well. I am not in escape mode right now and he seems confident enough of that to leave off any physical restraints.

It is now evening in the city of Prague. From the window of our room I can see the lights of a city that offers me no welcome. Jackson has ordered dinner from room service and is now tapping away on his laptop. I have taken out a spiral notebook and pen. In a few hours I will shower, put on clothes that aren't mine, and we will go to meet Jackson's client.


	4. Chapter 4

**As usual, I have no financial interest in any of the characters here.**

**Darkwing8 – enjoy your blueberries!**

The Four Seasons in Prague is actually three older buildings united by one newer main building with over 160 guest rooms and suites. Nestled on the banks of the Vlatava River in architectural styles spanning several centuries, it boasts every amenity or service a modern traveler could desire.

Lest it sound like I'd been paying attention that afternoon when our taxi first delivered us to its elegant entrance, let me hasten to add that I gleaned this information from the helpful brochure I found in the drawer of the exquisite little writing desk in the room. I'd focused on nothing when we arrived but surviving another night with Jackson Rippner.

Our room was lovely, although its eleven-foot ceilings and a wall of large, many- paned windows spoke of Old World charm that reminded me strongly of just how far away from home I was. In another time, this hotel would have been a delight to explore, but on this night, I put the brochure away and reluctantly picked up my cell phone. Dad had called three times, each message revealing an increased level of panic. My mother had called as well. Apparently, Dad had called to enlist her help when he couldn't get me.

Jackson Rippner, fresh out of the shower and clad in black silk pants, loose black jacket and a vibrant blueberry colored silk shirt, watched me intently from a yellow ottoman.

Let me say here that I was under no illusion about my chances of getting out of this alive. I knew he would not let me live. He had lied to me about that before. True, I had beaten him at his deadly game the first time, but now chances were strong that I was looking at more than one adversary. This time I was likely to die, either by Jackson's hand or by that of another. My focus now was on doing everything in my power to secure the safety of my parents. I had to gamble that after all of this was finished there would be no need to take the lives of those I loved dearest in the world. And so, I had to go along now with whatever it was Jackson wanted me to do.

I pictured my father as I last saw him at the airport, happy and healthy. I set the phone down, looked at the gleaming glow of the hardwood table. Watched it grow blurry as tears formed in my eyes.

"Lisa." Jackson's voice was deceptively soft, like that of a mother lovingly waking a child from a lengthy nap. I heard the warning in it, though. I raised my chin and powered my cell phone on.

I can't bring myself to record that conversation here. Let me just summarize by saying I spun my worried father a wonderfully plausible story about a low battery and an inability to get away from the Lux New York long enough get another one. I convinced him, I believe, of my health and well-being. He agreed to make a reassurance call to my mother for me and returned to his TV and his Lean Cuisine, I believe, satisfied.

I powered my phone off, set it down lovingly, and fled to the bathroom, to the privacy of a long, hot shower.

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Rade Vaschenko entered my life later that night.

I first heard the name just before we left the hotel. Jackson decided I needed a little briefing before our late night meeting.

I had lingered in the shower long enough to draw my courage back around me and stave away, at least for a while, the overwhelming homesickness that threatened to paralyze me. I had cried, I had silently raved and ranted, and finally I had dried my eyes and dressed for the evening.

Whoever had shopped for me and filled my suitcase had got my size right, had even got all the necessary cosmetics in the brand I normally used, but I felt vastly underdressed in a short, stretchy little Prada dress that seemed to be the only suitable choice for the evening. I tugged at the straps and the neckline, and focused on the photo file Jackson pulled up on his laptop. I saw a man with strong Slavic features, shoulder length black hair, and an oddly radiant facial expression.

Vaschenko, Jackson explained, to me, ran most of the crime in Eastern Europe. His father had been a career KGB officer, and Rade himself had served in the Russian army. When the fall came, his father lost everything, went from being powerful to being nobody. Rade, used to the best of everything that ill-earned KGB money could buy, learned his lessons well. Fresh out of the military, he fully embraced capitalism, of the black market kind. His rise to success was meteoric, according to Jackson.

I picked up my shoes, studied the heel height suspiciously, and slipped them on. "And what exactly is your business with him?"

Jackson shrugged, "I have something to sell and Vaschenko can provide a steady market for the goods. My company has never done business with him before, but if this transaction works out well, we can set him up as a regular client. It will be a very profitable venture for both of us."

"What part do I play in this? You haven't told me yet why I'm here."

"Honestly? I don't know yet." Jackson began shutting down the laptop. "He's a client and I want his business. I don't question why he does what he does or wants what he wants. He wants you here and I made that happen. The white slave trade is very brisk here, though. Maybe you'd better hope that isn't what he has in mind."

I stopped fiddling with a shoe strap to stare, aghast. "You're kidding, right?"

"About the market? No. But I don't think you need to worry about it. As lovely as you are, Lisa – and by the way, you do look very nice in that dress – the market is mainly for poor Russian girls in their teens, usually without families who would bother looking for them when they disappeared. They're trained here and sold in western countries."

"Sort of like I have," I pointed out. "Disappeared, I mean. I guess I can take comfort in knowing I'm too old to be considered attractive enough to sell. Well, that's just a lovely business, Jackson. It shows great moral integrity. Is that the kind of trade you are doing with Vaschenko?"

"No, Lisa. I have my standards, low as they may be. I don't sell women." And having taken that moral high ground, Jackson went on to say, "Besides, while the money in the sex slave trade isn't bad, it's just really not worth the trouble."

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As the evening was segueing into the early hours of the morning, Jackson and I left the hotel and stepped into a taxi. Winter nights in Miami felt warmer than this damp spring night. Jackson had called ahead for the cab, so I didn't have long to shiver, and the ride through the city was a short one, ending on a street bright with light and scattered with late night pedestrians.

A brief dispute arose when the driver pulled to the curb and said firmly, "Twenty six euros."

Jackson, who had his wallet out, paused. "I was quoted five euros over the phone."

"Twenty six. You pay in koruna, I give you discount."

"Do you shake down all your customers like this? Do you know how unethical that is?" Jackson sounded offended. He went back to counting out bills. "I'll pay in euros, and I'll pay five."

"You will pay twenty six or we will find the police." The driver was adamant and sounded very smug.

"You do that. Call them." Jackson flipped open his cell phone. "Do you know who owns the club "**_Nespavos"_**? That's who I'm calling."

After a moment of silence, our driver said sullenly, "There is no charge. But please get out of my taxi now."

He roared away from the curb almost before we could shut the car door behind us.

We slipped into a steady stream of pedestrians walking alongside a tall stone building and rounded the corner. A dimly lit sign, black on white, read "**_Nespavos_**". Beneath it an industrial strength door stood open, spilling light, sound, and people out onto the sidewalk. Jackson gave our names to one of the bouncers at the door, who tapped briefly on a Blackberry before issuing a short burst of words in what I took to be Czech (but could easily have been German – I don't speak either one) to the other bouncer. A 'follow me' hand motion waved us in.

Jackson clamped a hand over my wrist and hauled me through a sea of smoke, flashing light, and pulsing techno beat. Laser bolts of colored light shot across the room like neon lightning strikes. An ocean of waving, undulating bodies parted around us as we forged straight through the dance floor. We passed through the crowd and came to a stop at the opposite wall. The bouncer pressed a button and brass doors slid open. We stepped into the elevator and the sound and light disappeared behind us.

Our ascent took us up two floors to a room overlooking the club below. Two men, both large, both blonde, and wearing exquisitely tailored suits, were waiting for us. Two other men sat at a chess table, temporarily diverted from their game by our arrival. A large desk sat in one corner of the room, and a leather sofa and matching club chairs formed a cluster on the other side. Classical music played softly in the background.

The blonde men were scrupulously polite, but before we were allowed further into the room, one of them patted Jackson down. This was something I'd never seen done outside the movies and the airport, but Jackson seemed to expect it. Thankfully, I was spared the pat down. My skimpy dress left little room for hiding weaponry.

Silhouetted against the glass wall looking out over the crowd stood a very tall man I guessed to be Rade Vaschenko, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture impeccably straight. One of the blonde guards approached and spoke to him quietly.

He nodded and after a moment, turned to greet us.

"Jackson Rippner." He clapped Jackson heartily on the shoulders. "Welcome! Welcome to Prague. And to **_Nespavos_**."

He turned to me and clasped both of my hands within his own. His hands were huge and his presence overwhelmed me. He seemed to radiate with vibrant energy and I made a firm effort not to shrink away. "And Miss Reisert, of whom I have heard so much. I am honored by your presence."

I managed a cool, "Hello."

"Miss Reisert, I look forward to the opportunity to speak with you at much greater length. I wish very much to hear how you foiled the invincible Mr. Rippner. But unfortunately that must wait." He lifted his chin and called out, "Katya! Katya, come here now, please."

A young Slavic woman wearing a very short skirt and a tank top emerged from behind the desk. She wasn't very tall, and an open laptop had hidden her from view. She slid across the plush carpet to stand close to Rade, who rested a large hand on her sleek black hair and stroked it, as one would caress a favored pet. "Katya, take Miss Reisert downstairs. She should enjoy herself while we speak of boring business matters."

It was clear to me that sexism was alive and well in the Czech Republic. I spoke up.

"If you don't mind, I prefer the music in here."

"Ah!" His dark eyes lit up. "You know Dvorak."

"Actually, yes. New World Symphony is one of my favorites pieces."

"Yes, yes! He blends beautifully the folk tunes of the Old and the New Countries, don't you think? You should come again here, to Prague, in the winter, Miss Reisert. October, I think. We have a festival of traditional classical music. You will come again then. We will go together. You are a musician?"

"No," I said. I felt a little off balance discussing music with a mobster. "I play piano. But not often anymore."

Jackson, who had been watching with what looked like amusement, raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm impressed, Lisa. I learn something new about you every day. Now _go_. Go with Katya."

"You should play," Rade said as Katya and I were entering the elevator. "A musician must play or she will wither like a rose without sun."

I was pondering this poetic allusion on the ride down when Katya spoke for the first time.

"You are with Jackson Rippner?" Her voice had no inflection.

"Not by choice, I'm afraid."

"He is good lover?"

My face flamed and I cringed inside. "Sorry. I wouldn't know."

Katya studied me with knitted brows for a moment, and then shrugged. I wondered if ennui was a permanent state of being for Katya. Her questions, though, brought to my mind the slavery trade Jackson and I had been discussing earlier, and I wondered if Katya was here, with Rade, of her own free will. I wondered if she was even familiar with the concept of free will.

Back on ground level, she asked, "You want something to drink? Absinthe, maybe? Czech absinthe is very popular here."

"Thank you, no. I'm fine."

She nodded and slid away from me into the masses on the dance floor. She began moving sinuously to the music, eyes half closed, lost inside her own world. She disappeared among the crowd slowly, as if quicksand had engulfed her.

I'm not generally fond of techno clubs like this. I preferred quiet jazz bars, but right now, the beat pulsed all around me and soon I found myself on the dance floor yielding to it. Within the buffer of moving bodies, I felt strangely safe, and with an unexplainable sense of relief, I closed my mind to everything but the music. I lost all sense of time and blessedly, place. Nothing existed for me but the music, the movement, and the exquisite joy of being alive.

As I danced, I threw off the chill of fear that had coated me for the past two days; I tossed away the dread, the fatigue, and was soon covered with a fine sheen of sweat. I felt strong, energized, and defiant. I felt up to facing anything.

Something inexplicable happened then. I don't understand why, and frankly, I don't wish to. Let me just say that I have no regrets.

One moment I was a blissful, solitary dancer, and the next I had gained a partner. Someone's hands were at my waist; someone's breath brushed my neck. We moved together, blended rhythms. At some point, I became aware that I was dancing with Jackson.

I didn't care. I danced anyway.

Ages later, it seemed, we left the dance floor and Jackson did a curious thing. He slipped his fingers under the thin straps of my dress and tugged gently upwards, deliberately straightening the bodice. His touch reminded me sharply of the scar I bore.

He leaned in close, and I drew in a sudden breath. All he did, though, was say into my ear, "We're leaving with Rade. He insists we stay with him."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters; I just manipulate them.**_

_**Please review even if it's bad!**_

_**I'm trying to get to the action parts, but it is just so slow!**_

Chapter 5

Last time I turned my attention to my journal, I did so from the room we occupied briefly at the Four Seasons hotel. Today I am sitting in beautiful bedroom decorated in feminine shades of ivory and rose. It is a lovely bedroom, on the second floor of a large and charming château belonging to Rade Vaschenko. We arrived here early this morning.

We left the club, Nespavos, just as dawn was breaking above the slated rooftops of the surrounding buildings. We slipped through a back door into a narrow alley where a red sports car, a Porsche, idled in the alleyway. Clouds of white from the exhaust pipe mixed with pre-dawn fog to partly obscure the black Hummer that hovered behind it like a monstrous spider.

"Miss Reisert." Rade, slanting his dark eyes my way, shook back his thick wavy hair. "You will ride with me."

Katya melted wordlessly away from his side and walked back toward the Hummer, tossing a set of keys into the air. Jackson caught them deftly and draped an arm across my shoulder. I won't say that he actually shoved me toward the Porsche, but it was more than a subtle nudge. I glanced up at him and gave a small shrug worthy of Katya.

"Of course." I climbed in the passenger seat.

Rade's oversized frame seemed too big for the Porsche. His leather-clad arm brushed against mine with every shifted gear. He drove with cool skill, though, hanging a right turn out of the alleyway without bothering with the brakes. He touched a button on the dashboard and sound filled the tiny space.

"You know The Doors?" he asked.

"I am familiar with their music, yes."

"Jim Morrison was under appreciated as a poet. He was… he was true genius." Out on a broad avenue with sparse traffic, he accelerated, winding the tachometer up to the maximum before shifting into a higher gear. "True, he had no business sense. He died very poor, very young. Such a tragedy."

"I think addiction played a big part in that tragedy."

"Bah! Addiction is nothing more than undisciplined genius. Morrison was tragic genius, nothing less."

The ghostly music of The Doors, and the foggy, chilly, streets of Prague created a spectral, eerie atmosphere as we drove west, away from the dawn and back into the darkness.

Soon we left the main thoroughfare and wound down broad avenues lit by streetlights resembling nineteenth century lamplights and dotted by mansion-sized homes, interspersed periodically with what appeared to be large expanses of parkland. This then, would be where the wealthy of Prague retired to in the evenings after the banks and law firms closed (or in Rade's case, after the bars closed.)

Rade slowed as we drew even with a wooded area separated from the street by a high iron fence. Tall double gates slid open before us. The Porsche accelerated through them and down a dark road through the trees, toward a lighted area bordered by more fencing. Rade downshifted through a second set of open gates leading into a circular drive curving toward the grounds of a house of palatial proportions, slowed and came to a stop.

As I climbed out, the Hummer roared to a stop behind us. Jackson disembarked from the driver's seat, followed by Katya and the two chess players from Rade's office. I didn't see Rade's blonde bodyguards anywhere.

Subtle outdoor lighting made it possible to see the house clearly, even though dawn was still a promise and not yet a reality. I saw before me an elegant mansion made of pinkish stone surrounded by formal gardens that I looked forward to seeing by full daylight. A horseshoe shaped staircase led from the drive to the main body of the house where two massive oak doors stood open, spilling golden light out onto the walkway.

Katya strode ahead of us, moving up the staircase with purpose. As she drew nearer, she called out something in what I guessed was Russian. Twin statues flanking the doors came to life. Came to heel, actually.

"Do not attempt to approach the dogs, Miss Reisert, Jackson," she called out. "They are not pets; they are weapons."

She needn't have worried; I am very fond of dogs, but I was happy to leave these two alone. Heavily muscled and tall enough to reach well past Katya's waist, they stood at full attention and made no sound.

In response to a subtle hand gesture by Katya, both dogs suddenly dropped their sentry roles. Tails wagged and snouts snuffled with pure affection as the small Russian girl knelt and wrapped her arms around them. They licked her face, wagged some more, and when she rose to lead them away, they followed her happily.

With a bemused smile, Rade watched them go. "Katya loves the Weimaraners. They are trained to obey my guards, but with no one else but Katya are they playful."

The tall Russian mobster led the way up the stairs and into a huge reception hall that looked like something from a movie set. Walls of stone soared upward, topped by arched ceilings inlaid with medieval battle scene frescos. On one wall, a divided staircase curved elegantly up toward a balcony leading to adjacent wings on both sides.

Rade raised his arms proudly, possessively. "You like it?"

"Very much," I murmured.

"Baroque, and reminiscent of an Italian villa." Jackson strolled across the marble floor and stopped in front of a life-sized marble statue of a Madonna and child. "Seventeenth century, I'm thinking."

"Yes!" Rade seemed pleased. "It is Roman inspired. The architect was a Frenchman who lived for a time in Italy. So I am told. The château was built in the 1600s, but I assure you it has been updated, and you will find all of the modern conveniences you could wish for. I came into possession only recently. The last owner found himself in an embarrassing financial position, and I was in a position to help him."

"Oh, Peter, Aleksei! Here you are." The two blonde men had arrived, toting what appeared to be the luggage Jackson and I had left behind at the hotel. Katya drifted through the door behind them. "The Hapsburg Room, I am thinking for Mr. Rippner, and the Versailles Room for Miss Reisert."

"Lisa," Jackson interjected, sliding his hands in his pocket and sauntering my way. "Please call her Lisa. I'm sure she prefers it. Don't you, Leese?"

He stood so close to me I felt little jolts of alarm. That interlude of intimacy on the dance floor might never have happened. I stared into his insolent blue eyes, determined not to flinch or blink.

Finally, I glanced coolly back at our host, who had been watching us intently. His dark eyes flashed with bold curiosity. "Of course. Please call me Lisa."

"Yes. Lisa it will be, then. We are all friends here. There is no need for formality among friends." He clapped his hands briskly. "Now, the hour grows late. Or early, depending on your perspective. We shall retire for sleep. I regret that I have kept you out so late. I have little need for sleep myself, and I forget sometimes to be considerate of others.

"Peter will show you to your rooms. You will ring when you awaken and a breakfast tray will be brought to you. Or lunch, if you prefer. Jackson, you and I will meet for business this afternoon in the library. Shall we say three o'clock?" Rade lifted a hand toward Katya, who slid silently to his side. He caressed her hip, and dropped his lips briefly to her neck. She made no visible response.

"Miss Reisert – Lisa - you will please feel the freedom to roam the house at will. Katya will be around if you wish a guided tour, or perhaps you wish to go shopping. Tonight we shall meet again, and we shall dine together." With Katya half a step behind him, he led the way up the right-handed fork of the staircase. At the top he stopped, turned and said, "I bid you good night now."

He and Katya disappeared into the eastern wing of the house; Jackson and I followed Peter to the right, down a long hall into the western wing. Jackson's room was four doors down on the left and mine was directly across the hall from his. I closed the door on Peter and looked around at the pink washed walls, the delicate floral bedding and drapery, and the burnished oak floors. An adjoining bathroom offered sparkling marble amenities.

Immeasurably grateful to be alone for the first time in nearly two days, I washed my face, brushed my teeth and put on the sleep pants and shirt I found in the suitcase. I climbed into the four-poster bed and tried to sleep but found myself wide-awake.

I climbed out of bed, raised one of the windows about an inch and breathed deeply of the fresh air before crawling back under the heavy duvet. Eventually, when the birds were at their loudest, I slept.

I woke up in the early afternoon to find the clouds gone and the sun making an optimistic appearance. I showered, and dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved sweater. I was brushing my hair when I heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find Jackson, who breezed in carrying a tray crowded with a pot of tea, sandwiches, and fruit. I welcomed the tray of food wholeheartedly; the bearer less so.

"Sleep well?" He set the tray on top of a little antique writing desk. "You look good, Leese. I never thought I'd be saying this to you, but intrigue agrees with you. Have you considered a career switch?"

I folded my arms. "And what happy little bug flew up your um, shirt this afternoon, Jackson?"

"Just anticipating closure on a successful business deal, Leese." Jackson poured tea into a fragile looking cup, added two cubes of sugar and stirred. "With any luck at all, you'll be flying back to New York early, with a couple of days to spare. You can get some shopping done. Wish me luck. My luck is your luck, you know."

"You have no idea how badly I want that to happen," My voice was quiet. "And how badly I want to believe you when you say that."

For a few long moments, Jackson gazed through the window into the brilliant afternoon sunlight. He sighed, set his teaspoon gently on a porcelain saucer, and then closed the distance between us slowly enough that I could easily have turned away from him. I did not move, even when he lifted his hand to my face; cradled my cheek. "I'll do the best I can to make that happen, Lisa. That's the best I can do. I can't promise anything else."

His thumb traced a path on my cheekbone; his eyes held mine until I could not stand it anymore. I backed away.

"I should eat something now." I tried for a bright tone of voice. Something in the back of my throat hurt, though. I could not swallow, and I fought hard to keep a tear from escaping.

"I meant what I said, you know. You're good at this. You're resilient and adaptable. And very creative. I have the scars to prove it. Think about it, Lisa. I have the connections that could make it happen."

"There's nothing to think about, Jackson." My moment of weakness was over. I had myself well in hand again. "I'm not you. I would never choose to do the things you do."

"That's too bad. But never say never, Leese."

From Jackson's laptop, I emailed my father just now, a chatty note full of lies, and then I answered emails from Cynthia and from Matthew.

Cynthia had a shopping list of work related questions for me. At any other time, I would have addressed these questions with patience and good humor, but under the current circumstances, I found myself wondering if my friend and co-worker would ever develop enough initiative and confidence to solve her own problems.

My current lack of forbearance was not Cynthia's fault, however, and in any case I knew I must at all costs appear normal, so I answered with as light a tone as I could manage. I felt grateful for the freedom from scrutiny that email allowed me.

This was also a helpful tool for responding to Matthew, who dropped me a characteristically short note offering to cook dinner for me when I arrive home on Sunday night. I thought about Matthew for a moment and was surprised to find that I could not picture him – he was a blurred vision of someone sweet and gentle, but when I tried to bring his features into focus, all I could see was the sharp outline of a man with cold eyes and an unyielding temperament. I shivered and wrote to Matthew about how much I looked forward to Sunday.

I turn away from Jackson's computer now. As tempting as it is to journal on the laptop, I know by now that setting my thoughts down this way helps me find peace of mind. I don't know lies in store for me this evening, but finding some measure of serenity now can only help.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters**_

_**Deathwing8, the "Kiss the Cook" apron was in the wash. The chess players haven't done the laundry yet.**_

"May I have your jacket, Jackson? I'm freezing." We lounged on white Adirondack chairs on a terrace behind the west wing of the château. The weak sunshine of earlier had long given way to evening shadows and a crescent moon. A chill cut through my basic little black dress. Jackson, better prepared than I for spring in the Czech Republic, wore Armani wool.

Jackson shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to me. His ebullient mood of earlier had gone; he seemed glum now. Fingers laced around a bottled beer, he sprawled back on the wooden chair, basking in the glow of tiki torches.

I huddled gratefully under the warm wool, and sipped from a glass of chardonnay.

Katya had been the one who clued us in that tonight's cozy dinner for four was to be a formal affair. To be fair to Katya, she seemed misinformed as well. Clad in a bustier and a short leather skirt, she sat with her knees drawn to her chin and a brooding expression on her face.

Our host, striding around the terrace in supple leather pants, black turtleneck and a "Kill it and Grill it" barbeque apron, deftly wielded a long handled fork. Steaks sizzled on a Weber grill, potatoes in foil jackets baked under the coals, and a cooler of Bud Light chilled off to one side. Classic rock pulsed from hidden speakers. Despite the Old World flavor faithfully preserved in the château's interiors, Rade, as it turned out, was an avid fan of all things American.

"Tony Soprano." He waved the fork with the grace of an orchestra conductor. "In his home he is king of barbeque grill. Too bad he cannot control his women."

"In the States we try to avoid words like 'control', at least when our women are present," Jackson said. "They tend to take offence."

"Just as I said. You American men are afraid of your women. Perhaps this is why Miss Reisert – Lisa – came out the victor in your recent struggle."

"Perhaps." Jackson refused the bait; he sounded bored. He drained his bottle and Katya uncapped another, handed it to him.

"Tell me please, Lisa, how this happened."

Jackson glanced over at me with the detachment of a curious bystander. I watched the chess players set a big plastic bowl of salad greens and four different bottles of salad dressing out on a wrought iron table with an umbrella top. The blonde men, dressed as nattily as ever, lolled in the background on matching iron chairs. One of them – Peter, I think - reached over and snagged a tortilla chip from a bowl.

"I really don't know how to answer that." I said.

"Try, please." Rade flipped the steaks; brushed them with marinade from a blue Fiestaware bowl.

"I just did the best I could in the circumstances," I said. "I don't really know what else to say. I don't like talking about it.

"Yes, of course. It was not pleasant time for you. However, good came of it. You know now that you are strong, that you can survive. You can do things you never thought you would do. Outwitting Mr. Rippner – this is major accomplishment. Perhaps you do not realize this."

"Go ahead, rub it in," Jackson muttered.

"Mr. Rippner planned his assignment with meticulous care. He planned well, for every contingency, I am sure. He could not plan, however, for your spirit and determination. For your courage. Those are strong American values. Be proud of them."

"Oh stop. You're turning her head."

"Well, here's the thing," I said, suddenly very tired of the polite guest charade. "My values are very simple. I don't believe in bringing pain, misery or death to other people for the sake of profit."

"Profit is basis on which your American economy is founded. Pain, misery and death are facts of ordinary life. The business Mr. Rippner and I conduct is consistent with your traditional American values."

"Assassinating government officials is a traditional American value?"

"Mr. Rippner tells you I carry out assassinations?"

"_Mr. Rippner_ tells me nothing. I don't know why I am here, I don't know what business the two of you have together, and honestly, I don't want to know. I just really, really would like to go home."

"Mr. Rippner obviously thought it wiser to keep you in the dark. I think differently. You will please enlighten our guest as to our business." Rade pointed the barbeque fork at Jackson, who heaved a big sigh.

"Oh, all right. It's not a big deal, Lisa. Obviously, you already know what I do for a living. Vaschenko does much the same thing on a somewhat smaller scale here in this part of the world. I am negotiating a contract between my organization and Vaschenko. He would run all our operations in Eastern Europe. There's always unrest in the Balkans, in the Caucasus regions – Georgia, Abkhazia, other former Russian republics – and that's always good for business. Vaschenko will head up a franchise of my company if we can agree on terms."

Ah. This, then, was the reason for Jackson's sulk. Terms with Rade were not yet settled.

"Setting aside the blatant immorality of all of that for the moment," I said, "Please tell me what any of this has to do with me."

"Rade'll have to answer that one."

"Gladly." The reflection of the tiki torches seemed to dance in his eyes. "You fascinate me, Lisa, as I said to you earlier. It was whim. That is all."

"You had me kidnapped and brought here simply on a whim?"

"I read in your People magazine that movie actress Julia Roberts must have organic milk in her trailer at all times. I would call that whim. Like Miss Roberts, I am in position to make such demands. Mr. Rippner wants my business. He cannot afford to fail - he will meet my demands. Now let us talk no more of business. Steaks are ready. And save room for 'smores. I have Hershey's chocolate bars and marshmallows."

"More wine?" Katya topped off my wine glass.

---------------------------------------------------

My hope, based on my conversation with Jackson earlier that day, had been for a swift and successful conclusion to whatever pact with the devil Jackson and Rade were signing off on, but our patio party conversation shot that little burst of optimism right out of the sky. Following dessert (we did indeed roast marshmallows over the Weber), I wanted nothing more than to retire to my room upstairs to write in peaceful solitude.

It would be a long time, however, before I found that peaceful solitude. That night Rade Vaschenko took us to another of his clubs, and my life suddenly switched into fast forward.

I have mostly just fragments of memory of my visit to that club. When I cast my mind back, I remember massive fiery torches casting a medieval glow and narrow spiral steps leading to cave-like alcoves overlooking the dance floor. I see men in shiny suits and assorted facial jewelry and women wearing heavy eyeliner, leather and latex. I remember a band backlit with blue covering Billy Idol's "White Wedding" in Russian and the lead singer's butt length hair swirling around his naked torso like flames.

I see clearly again a tray laden with crystal glasses and slotted spoons, and then flames and a toxic green glow. I remember the taste of bitter Czech absinthe and the brief, clear-headed feeling of exhilaration that followed.

My final memories of that nameless club eclipse those earlier impressions, though. Peter and Aleksei entered our alcove supporting a man I thought was drunk. Rade, who had been reclining on a plush love seat beside me, rose with cat-like grace and approached them. As they talked, the man began to struggle. Peter and Aleksei held onto him. When the man's fear turned to panic, I knew it wasn't drink that brought him nearly to his knees. I recognized a fellow captive. And I watched helplessly as the blonde men hauled him away.

Rade returned to our table to tell us he was cutting our evening short.

"I am sorry." he said. "For me, business and pleasure are always side by side. You, Mr. Rippner, may remain here with Katya for as long as you wish. A taxi will return you to my home at your leisure. I will take Lisa with me."

A protest rose to my lips, but I couldn't seem to get it out. My brain and my mouth weren't working well together just then.

"Take Lisa where?" Jackson, until now supremely mellow on a cloud of absinthe, surfaced suddenly.

"It is private business matter, Mr. Rippner. It does not concern the negotiations you and I have entered into. I can assure you that you will hardly miss her. You will not be cold or lonely tonight. Katya will keep you company. She will keep you warm. Lisa goes with me."

"Rade-" Katya looked startled, then broke into rapid, angry Russian.

"Entertain Mr. Rippner, Katya," he interrupted smoothly. "It is what you do best. Lisa goes with me."

I remember vividly the smirk on Jackson's face and the resigned look on Katya's. I've often wondered what my own face reflected just then.

-----------------------------------------

"I wish now for you to tell me, Lisa, in detail of your previous confrontation with Mr. Rippner."

We were in the Hummer, racing down a freeway. Enveloped in a chardonnay and absinthe haze complicated by a mostly empty stomach (I'd eaten very little at Rade's bizarre patio party), all I wanted to do now was sleep.

"I don't wish to."

"But I do. And Lisa, it is best if you do as I say."

Something in that terrible, calm voice broke through my haze and frightened me very badly. And so, I recounted, factually and without emotion, every moment of that terrible night. I began with my arrival at the airport and ended with the ambulance taking Jackson away.

"We thought he was dead."

"The ambulance attendants were his people. They worked for him. They took him to hospital under false name. But a pen, Lisa? A writing pen? You attacked Mr. Rippner with a pen?" Until now, he had listened to my recitation without comment, without reaction. Now he laughed heartily.

"Yes. A writing pen. But I want to know how you know these things. About that night. About me."

He shrugged. "In my world, knowledge is power. I have my sources; I pay them well. The man in the club tonight. This upset you."

"Of course it did."

"Why 'of course'? You do not know the circumstances. The man worked for me. He betrayed me. There are consequences and he knew this when he made decision to break faith. He knew, as they say, 'rules of engagement'. I am soldier." Rade laughed again. "I am General, not Sergeant. I have rank. But it is war nonetheless. I live in violent world. If I do not kill, then I am killed. This is my job. I do it well."

We were off the freeway now. We crossed a concrete bridge, over a narrow trickle of inky water, into an industrial area. Brick buildings – warehouses, by the sight of them - lined the narrow streets. Rade drove into a fenced concrete yard and stopped the Hummer beneath a loading dock lit by a mesh-enclosed light just under the roof.

"Step out," he said. "And come with me."

Much of what I saw inside that warehouse, I do not wish to remember. What I will record here is that Rade took me to a place of evil, where a man was held against his will, secured with ropes to a swivel office chair. He was, of course, the man from earlier, from the club.

Terrible things had been done to him; terrible things were done to him while I was there.

"Why did you bring me here?" I remember whispering to Rade.

"So you will know who I am."

Rade went to the man. I tried to concentrate on breathing. The smell of sweat and fear brought bile up into my throat and I fought to keep from retching. I inched backward towards the huge metal doors, intent on escaping from this place of pain. Peter and Aleksei positioned themselves between the doors and me.

I have a very clear memory of what happened next, of Rade Vaschenko touching his victim's face, speaking to him as if he was bestowing a benediction. Then he beckoned to Peter and Aleksei; they joined him.

For a few horrible moments, I stood there paralyzed, unable to think or act. Then the man began to scream.

I turned and ran from the building.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: As usual, I do not own any of these characters. And Nic: you have a good eye for the Russian. I did indeed borrow many aspects of him from xXx!

Chapter 7

Driven by the horror I'd seen inside, I bolted through steel doors, leaped the last couple of steps down to the asphalt, ran across the yard past forklifts and wooden pallets. I fled through the gates, into the street.

Blocks passed; I slowed, looked behind me. My foot caught on the pavement and I tripped, went down, caught myself with my hands. A sharp snap echoed in the silent streets; I'd broken a heel. I picked myself up, let my eyes scan the street. It was empty. The buildings and streets and lights gave me no clue, no direction; I was lost. With no other option, I decided that I should go straight ahead.

I ditched the shoes and pushed myself off the pavement, relieved I hadn't turned my ankle. I kept running. Three blocks later I turned a corner onto a wider street and slowed, convinced I wasn't being followed. There was no sign of the Hummer. I kept to the shadows, though, not knowing know what Aleksei and Peter might be driving.

I didn't know where I was going. I didn't have a plan; didn't even have my purse. This street was definitely better traveled than the one I'd come from, but I didn't know where it would lead me. I knew Prague had a subway system, and I hoped to find a station, or even a city bus. I couldn't pay the fare, but it was the best idea I could come up with, and I'd figure that part out later.

What I found instead was a taxi, two blocks back and coming my way. It cruised down the four lane street and slowed for a red light that turned green. I ran out into the street shrieking, frantic arms windmilling. The taxi squealed to an abrupt stop.

The cabbie cranked his window down. I babbled something about an emergency, about needing the police.

"Get in, please. I will take you to police," he replied in heavily accented English.

In retrospect, I should have known better. At the time it seemed my only option. I jumped gratefully into the back of the taxi and listened as the cab driver radioed in to the dispatcher.

God, it had felt good to run! Finally, I'd burst out of the mind numbing torpor I'd walked around in ever since I woke up aboard the jet. I had reasoned, sensibly, that the logical thing was to play along with Jackson and hope for the best. The logic hadn't changed, but I couldn't do that anymore. I stared through the window and dared hope the nightmare was over.

Six blocks later, the car stopped at a light that wasn't red and Peter and Aleksei stepped into the back seat with me.

-----------------------

None of us spoke on that short drive back to the warehouse and I came out of the taxi angry and defiant. Peter not ungently took one arm; Aleksei, flanking me on the other side, grabbed the other one.

"That isn't necessary." I wanted to shake them off violently; wanted to scream at them. Instead I kept my voice calm, rational. "I'm not going anywhere. I think we all know that."

"Release her " This came from the shadows. Leather boots marked a slow, stalking rhythm on the pavement. Looking sublimely serene, Rade Vaschenko walked into the light.

He slapped me. Hard. On both cheeks.

"I expected it of you, Lisa," he said. "I would have been disappointed if you had not tried it. But I cannot tolerate it."

My face on fire and my eyes stinging with tears, I said, "You set me up, didn't you? You knew I'd run."

I'd figured that part out in the taxi, on the way back here.

"Yes, of course. You needed to run, get it out of your system, see how useless it is. Now get in the truck, please. You and I have much to discuss."

---------------

Rade's American mood seemed to have given way to European once more. The classic rock of earlier was replaced by Beethoven, and the sonata's fierce first movement matched my own smoldering fury. Rade drove the freeways skirting Prague's suburbs skillfully and with great speed. He seemed in no hurry to return to the chateâu.

When he finally did speak, it was to say, "You will not go home. You know this, yes?"

I closed my eyes; tried to push his words away. Then said, "I won't give up hope. I can't."

"Mr. Rippner cannot afford to let you live. He wishes to reclaim his previous position of honor and authority. To do so he must clean up all debris from his fantastic mistake. But you are right. There is always hope and I offer you that hope. I offer you chance to stay here with me."

The Pathetique's first movement crested, finished with a decisive crash of notes and gave way to the deep, abiding, sadness of the second.

"Why?"

"For pleasure." Caught briefly behind cars blocking two lanes of traffic, Rade soared up nearly onto the bumper of one, rode it until the car in the other lane dropped back, then whizzed over, deftly avoiding by inches, it seemed, the bumper of the second car. "And for business. We would make good team, you and I. Russian and American. East and West. I will train you, teach you."

"You want to teach me to do the things you do?" My voice sounded as dead as I would likely be before long.

"Is not so hard. You have values, yes. So you told me. And so I see, too, by your distaste tonight for certain aspects of my work. Those aspects you need not involve yourself in. I run business. You have business skills – management skills. Together we make very successful business."

"I cannot – I will not – be a part of your world, Rade. You are asking me to go against everything I believe in."

"Belief systems change with circumstances. Yours will change. You have no choice, unless you prefer to die. And so I ask you. You would rather die than share my bed?"

"And Katya?" I sought to deflect the question.

"I am fond of Katya," he said. "She has been good companion to me for long time now. Straight from Russia, Katya, no family, and no hope of surviving life on the streets. She had heroin habit; she slept on street. She was waitress in one of my clubs. _Nespavos_, you remember? I took her home, got rid of drugs, sent her to school. Katya is smart girl. And loyal. Katya will not go against my wishes."

I pictured Katya as I last saw her, taking Jackson home, resigned. "Is this part of the deal you and Jackson are negotiating? Jackson is selling me like a slave?"

"Is not part of deal. Mr. Rippner is inflexible on this point. Your life is of no consequence to him, yet he does not wish for you to be with me." I couldn't see his face clearly, but I heard amusement in his voice. "But I will keep you whether Mr. Rippner wishes this or not."

"Mr. Rippner is not gracious in defeat," I said. "He is used to getting his way."

"Put him from your mind. He is not factor in what you and I discuss. Perhaps, Lisa, you would consider that my power is greater than Mr. Rippner's. If you accept my protection, you have nothing to fear from him. And perhaps someday soon you can return to States for visit."

I put it together then; suddenly understood what he was telling me.

"Have you – signed off on your deal with Jackson?" I kept my voice light, my tone casual, and I held my breath.

"You are smart girl, Lisa. You do not disappoint me. So I will answer you in direct manner. Mr. Rippner is still alive. He will stay that way until I get what I want from him."

"And that would be?"

"To sweeten deal, Mr. Rippner has offered to deliver supply of arms. I need them. They will go far to launch small rebellion in former Russian republic. Unfortunately, only Mr. Rippner knows where they are stored at this moment. Tomorrow, though, I transfer payment and I take possession of weapons."

"Wouldn't this affect your um, relationship with Jackson's organization? It doesn't seem to me that they'd honor your contract if you assassinated one of their employees."

"Is part of contract I already have with them. Jackson knows nothing of this."

I felt infinitely weary under the burden of this information. "Why would you trust me enough to tell me this?"

"You see earlier what happens to those who betray me." We'd left the freeways now and were back in the older part of Prague; back on the boulevard with the old fashioned streetlamps. We spoke no more until we were once again inside the grand reception hall of the Italianate chateâu.

"Think carefully on what I have said to you, Lisa." We stood at the foot of one of the twin staircases. "Tomorrow I transfer large amount of money from my bank account to purchase weapons. After receiving confirmation of funds, Mr. Rippner will no longer have reason to keep you alive. With me you have chance at life. Do not wait too long."

He grasped my chin with delicate fingers, threaded his other hand through the back of my hair, forced me to look into his face. Eyes alight and lips curved with private amusement, he had me cornered, like a tabby with a mouse. He traced my lip with his thumb, then dropped his lips to mine. Then: "You will think of this. Sleep on it."

"Yes." It came out a whisper; I struggled to suppress a deep shudder.

I maintained my calm climbing the stairs, but as soon as I was out of sight of Rade, I ran. Ran through the hall to my room, glancing briefly at Jackson's closed door, and shut my own door behind me.

I sank to the floor and gave way to horror, revulsion and fury. I quaked and shook, rocked and shivered. I let the tears flow freely, and wondered how I was going to get out of here. Staying here, playing the game, just wasn't an option anymore. I was done playing the passive fool, the pawn between Jackson and Rade.

First, though, I had to get clean, had to brush my teeth, scrub my face, wash away all traces of this night, of Rade Vaschenko. Then I would plan.

I rose to my feet, crossed the room and pushed open the bathroom door. Before I could switch on a light a hand clamped over my mouth and I was shoved against the bathroom wall.

"Don't say a word," Jackson said.

-------------------

He flipped on the light and then the shower. The Armani was gone; he wore jeans and a soft button-front shirt and looked startlingly alert for a man who'd ploughed through countless shots of absinthe just a couple of hours earlier

"He won't be able to hear us over this.," he said. "Rade has security cameras hidden in all the rooms except for the bathrooms. He's recording everything we say and do."

"Shit. SHIT!"

"What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me? What's _wrong_ with me? Well now let's see. What could possibly be wrong with me?"

"Okay, okay." His voice was soothing and snide. "Go ahead, say what you need to say, get it all -What the _fuck_ happened to your face? _What did he do to you_?"

"I don't want to talk about it, okay? I just want out of here!"

"You never do want to talk about bad things that happen to you, do you, Leese? It's very noble of you, but we really don't have time to do noble right now, so I'm going to ask you again. What happened to you tonight?"

Jackson and Rade had many things in common, but right then I identified another thing. Both of them seemed to think I had the makings of a fine agent of intrigue. And both of them were wrong as I proved just then by violating one of the basic tenets of the spook world – that of circumspection. I don't know why I said it; can't explain or defend it, but what came out of my mouth was, "He's going to kill you, you know."

"Yeah, I knew that. The bastard wants my job. Answer my question, Lisa."

"I'm fine, okay? It's no big deal. I saw a man being tortured, I ran away, they caught me, and Rade slapped me. Oh, and offered me Katya's position. Both of them, actually. Vertical and horizontal." I think by then I was starting to border on giddy hysteria. I found this wildly funny.

Jackson did not. "Did you accept?"

"Fuck you, Jackson. You know what? Why don't you just leave me alone now? Go on back to bed. Your little Russian friend will wonder where you are."

"No reason to be snide, Lisa. A girl does what a girl has to do. I don't hold it against her and neither should you."

I heaved a big sigh, suddenly weary to the bone. Surprisingly, Jackson seemed contrite. "I'm sorry, Leese. I shouldn't have said that."

I used to think Jackson was the worst person I would ever know. Rade Vaschenko changed my views on that. Jackson might only be marginally better, but right then I needed that margin. That's why, when Jackson reached out for me, I went into his arms, let him hold me. Somebody had to do it.

"I'm just so tired, Jackson. And please don't tell me to suck it up."

"I won't, Lisa," he said into my hair. "Not for half an hour or so. But before dawn comes, you and I are getting out of here. You'll need to get it together by then."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters**_

_**Thank you emptyvoices. I appreciate your help! I'm going on vacation Wednesday, so it'll be a couple of weeks before I have another chapter up.**_

Chapter 8

The damage the LuxAtlantic sustained in Jackson's spectacularly staged disaster six months ago was extensive, but it was beautifully contained to the top floors of the hotel. That's the marvel of plastic explosives. A team of specialists quickly certified that the rest of the hotel was structurally sound and business as usual very quickly resumed.

And so it was with Rade's beautifully restored seventeenth century château. At four a.m. on Wednesday morning, a relatively minor blast took out a portion of the back quadrant of the mansion, destroying a kitchen, solarium and morning room. The rest of the sturdy old house stood firm and solid.

Sirens wailed almost immediately, before the stunned householders could get their wits about them and begin to react. The almost instantaneous response of fire and police personnel was less attributable to what is no doubt an admirable emergency services system in Prague than it was to Jackson Rippner, who placed a call to them a full ten minutes before the blast.

An eerie silence within the house followed the explosion, but within moments, angry shouting erupted from upstairs and down, the dogs started up a frenzied clamor, and of course, there were the sirens.

Amidst this chaos, Jackson and I crept out of the rose colored bedroom, followed the hallway away from the front stairs, and descended a small stairwell to a basement exit in a wing opposite the damaged one. Once outside, Jackson took my hand and we ran across a dark lawn toward a brilliantly lit outbuilding the size of a small airplane hangar. We halted in the shadows and watched while a guard, khaki uniformed and holding an automatic rifle across his chest, paced nervously in front of the building.

Jackson left the shadows, walked up to the man and spoke to him urgently in Russian. He gestured back toward the house and moved steadily in the other direction, toward the barn sized doors fronting the building. The guard seemed torn, no doubt wanting to rush toward the drama unfolding on the other end of the house where even now smoke billowed and flames licked around the pink brick, but also understandably wary of angering Rade Vaschenko by leaving his post. Professional integrity (or perhaps self preservation) won out. The guard pointed the rifle at Jackson. He was, however, unaware of my presence.

"Now would be good," Jackson sang out in English, right in the middle of a spate of Russian words, and then went back to arguing with the guard.

I came out of the shadows, walked up behind the guard, unseen, and applied a two-pronged device to his left shoulder. He dropped to the ground, twitched briefly, and was still.

"Good job, Leese." Jackson said. "I'm glad that worked. I wasn't sure the battery in that thing was any good."

As it turns out, earlier that evening while I was touring the industrial region of Prague, Jackson was a busy man. He and Katya must have parted company fairly early on because Jackson managed to scope out the security systems, set up the C4 in the kitchen, and round up any number of useful items, including the Taser I'd just made use of. I'm not sure how he managed all of this, actually, given the high level of security in that house. He declined explaining it to me.

Now, with the confidence of a suburban homeowner, he keyed numbers into a security panel beside the doors of the huge shed. They rumbled open, revealing a fleet of vehicles. Besides the Hummer and the Porsche, I counted four Suburbans and six compact cars with taxi lights on their roofs.

Jackson aimed a keyless remote in the general direction of the cars, saying, "This has to work on one of these."

A chirp and flashing lights on the Porsche proved it did.

And so we swept out of the garage, down the lighted circular drive, past a cluster of excited Russians, past the two dogs, held at bay by a small dark haired woman, and past firefighters disembarking from a rumbling, red ladder truck. The gates leading out were open, but another khaki clad guard stood sentry. As we neared, he raised his rifle. Suspicion was cast already; Rade knew we were responsible.

"Get down." Jackson accelerated, shifted, and shot through the gates. Ducking is not an easy thing to do in a Porsche, but when the back windshield shattered, I made myself as small as I could.

A yellow ambulance van passed, coming through the parkland area, and as we flew through the final set of gates out onto the street, a oncoming police car braked into a u-turn and followed us. Fortunately, the economy-sized patrol car was no match for the Porsche; Jackson outpaced him immediately and lost him in a maze of suburban streets.

"We've got to ditch the Porsche," Jackson said. "Like now."

"Why?"

"You mean besides looking a little suspicious driving a Porsche with a back window missing?" We soared through a yellow traffic light. "The GPS system - Rade knows where we are. He'll mobilize his taxi fleet. Did you know those guys are all trained guerilla fighters? He hires guys who went to terrorist school to drive his taxis."

We were in the downtown area now. Dawn had not yet broken and there were few cars on the streets this early. We left the Porsche parked by a meter and took off on foot. A taxi approached and slowed. Jackson wrapped his arms around me; I snuggled up closely. The taxi drove on, but we kept up the subterfuge of amorous lovers, with Jackson throwing in a drunken stagger every now and then.

We found a subway station; learned the trains didn't start running for another half hour. We walked for half an hour; came back as the sky was beginning to lighten in the east. Took a red line train two stops south; walked through a residential district of older homes. Some were well cared for; some spoke of careless living, with untended lawns and peeling paint.

Jackson seemed sure of our direction and three blocks later, we walked up the front steps of an aged stone house with a red roof. Jackson had a key to deadbolt on the front door and we entered the narrow hallway of what had once been a large one-family dwelling more recently subdivided into multiple apartments. A flight of stairs and another deadbolt key took us to a small, sparsely furnished apartment.

"This is your place?" I asked. A large table lamp cast a warm glow over a narrow bed, a shabby easy chair and a threadbare sofa. A small TV sat atop a small dresser and padlocked storage cabinets were built into one of the walls. A tiny kitchen and a smaller bath opened off of the combination bed/living room.

"Temporarily." Jackson dropped into the easy chair, kicked his feet out in front of him, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "It's not up to my usual standards, but it suited my needs."

"Then you knew this was going to happen."

"No. I knew it might happen. I was here last week. I took precautions. Renting this room was one of them."

"So now what?" I paced over to a window and looked through dusty mini blinds down at the street below. As I watched, two guys in jeans and t-shirts emerged from the house below, wheeling bicycles toward the street. Students, I was guessing, by their backpacks.

"Rest. Take a nap, Leese. You've been up all night."

"Rest?" It was not even six in the morning yet. I'd operated in panic mode throughout the night, I was still wearing the same basic black dress I'd put on for Rade's cookout yesterday evening, and my adrenaline remained in overdrive. "How can you rest?"

"I can't. I've got work to do." He opened his eyes, forced himself out of the chair, and unlocked one of the cabinets, taking out a laptop identical to the one he'd had to leave behind when we fled. "But you should. I need my zip drive first, though."

I dug through my purse and unearthed the zip drive. "My cell phone's missing."

"I used it to detonate the C4." He carried the laptop into the kitchen and set it atop a chrome sided kitchenette table. I followed him.

"Did we kill anyone, Jackson?" My part in the bombing lay heavy on my heart. I'd wanted desperately to get away from Rade Vaschenko, but I was well aware of the risks involved in making that happen.

"No. As I told you before, it's highly unlikely anyone was in that part of the house at that time of the morning."

I wandered back into the main room; paced a bit; sat down finally on the lumpy tweed sofa. My mind raced. I saw images from the blast - a burned out shell where the kitchen had been, the guard on the ground. I remembered the group of people on the front lawn. I focused on them and tried unsuccessfully to pull up faces. I remembered Katya, though, with the dogs. My eyes felt heavy now and my body felt weighted. My thoughts started to drift. Maybe I would just rest my eyes for a moment or two…

-------------------------------

I awoke to full daylight streaming through the mini blinds. I was lying prone on the couch with a pillow under my head and a blanket tucked around me. For a while I was content to lie still and luxuriate in the perfect stillness, the peculiar sense of safety and sanctuary I felt in this shabby room. I felt like I could sleep a full eight hours more, but I dared not. With reluctance, I rose from the sofa.

Jackson was gone from the apartment. Cool, sweet air blew in on a gentle breeze from a raised window in the kitchen and anchored to the table next to the laptop was a note written on a paper towel that said 'gone for food'.

I made up my mind quickly. I picked up my purse and walked out the door.

Outside, I looked up and down the street but saw no sign of Jackson. I set off in the direction we had come several hours earlier. Pedestrian traffic was light. Ahead of me, an older woman wearing a winter coat and a headscarf pushed a shopping cart and I met two girls I guessed to be in their early twenties on bicycles going the opposite direction.

Two blocks down, I turned a corner halfway to the train station and came face to face with Jackson. He was toting two paper grocery sacks and his eyes turned glacial when he saw me.

"You leaving me, Lisa?"

"You don't need me anymore," I said. "I'd say your deal with Rade has pretty much fallen through. It's time for me to go home."

"So you're going to what, just catch the next train to the nearest police station and hope you don't pass any cab drivers along the way?"

"That's pretty much it," I said.

He shifted the bags to one arm. "You need to rethink that plan, Leese. Walk back to the house with me. There's something you need to see."

"I don't think so." I started to edge past him. "I'm going n- yeow!"

He'd grabbed my elbow and pressed down hard. "Don't make a scene," he said in a low voice. "You don't want anyone to notice us and remember. You can't afford that. Not if you want to live."

"You know what? I'm just really tired of all these threats and-- that hurts! Let go of my arm!"

"I'm not talking about me now, Lisa. Or Rade. Just …. trust me. I know how hard that is for you, but try it. Just this once. Go back to the house with me. If you still want to go after you've seen what I have to show you, I won't stop you."

I thought about what he said. Part of me wanted to keep walking, all the way to the subway station. Something else – intuition maybe – urged me to listen to Jackson.

"All right," I said.

Together we walked back to the small apartment where Jackson showed me, on the laptop screen, a sketch of a woman who looked a lot like me. "This is on the web page for one of Prague's daily newspapers," he explained. "The explosion at the mansion is big news right now. Headline news. Now no one died in the blast – just as I promised you - but police want to question a man and a woman seen fleeing the scene (that would be you and me, Lisa) about the death of a security guard. Apparently he was shot outside the garage by the 'suspects' during a daring getaway attempt in the owner's personal vehicle."

"I didn't shoot him! I used a Taser!" One would think that after everything I'd been through I would be incapable by now of feeling further shock or outrage. One would be wrong. "We don't even have a gun! At least I don't. Do you have one, Jackson? Did you shoot him?"

"Did you see me shoot anybody? I was with you the whole time. You know I didn't!" Jackson slammed the laptop shut. "Rade probably killed that guard for letting us get away."

"So now I'm wanted by the police? For murder? Does Rade own the police force, too?"

"No, not all of them. Maybe a few. You need to chill, Leese. We'll figure something out."

I was way beyond chill range. "You, Jackson. Not 'we'. You got me into this; you get me out. That's what you do, isn't it? You fix things. _Fix this, Jackson_!"

"Then don't fuckin' run from me again, Lisa!" He advanced on me suddenly, his hands shoulder high, giving me little shoves. He backed me up to the wall. I couldn't think why I'd ever thought his eyes were cold; right now, they blazed. "If you want me to save your life."

"Why would you even bother?" I fired back. "You want me dead anyway, don't you? You've been threatening me for days!"

"Newsflash, Leese." With deceptive languor he reached for the neckline of my dress, stretched it down below my scar. He traced it with his thumb, his eyes never leaving mine. I gasped; tried to push him away. He grabbed my wrists, returned them to my side. Then cupped my face; leaned in closer. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be here now."

He kissed me.

I kissed him back. Wrapped my hands behind his neck, twined my fingers in his hair and kissed him back. Ages later, but way too soon, he pulled away, gently unwound my hands from his neck and gave them back to me.

"I won't do that again," he said. "Unless you tell me that's what you want. I want more than kisses from you. I want you naked in that bed with me. But that has to be your choice."

Jackson walked away from me then, went back and started unloading groceries. I felt a wretched sense of loss and a profound sense of relief.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters! And thanks to emptyvoices for helping talk me through where this goes next!**_

**Chapter 9**

After Jackson unpacked the groceries, he stretched out on the sofa to sleep and I paced the floor for a while. I thought about journaling, because I had my notebook in the side pocket of my purse, but frankly, just then I wasn't sure I wanted to explore any new truths about myself. So I paced, from the window that looked out into the street, to the door to check the deadbolt, and back again. I watched Jackson sleep for a time, chewing my bottom lip and trying to make some sort of sense out of him, out of me, out of everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. Nothing came together; nothing made sense. All of it was too vivid and I felt overwhelmed by it. After a while I curled up on the brown cotton spread covering the bed, and I, too, went to sleep.

When I awoke, Jackson was working, alternating between laptop and cell phone. He had several phones of the prepaid variety he shuffled amongst. He was, he told me, laying a false trail under all of his known identities, making multiple reservations at airlines, hotels, and car rental agencies throughout the Czech Republic and Germany.

"This will keep Rade – and the police - busy for a while," he explained. "I rented this place under a name no one else knows about. I don't think it's likely anyone recognized us on the street earlier today, so we should be safe here at least through tonight."

"And then what?"

"According to news reports, 'the owner' of the chateau has gone into seclusion in an 'undisclosed place'. I don't know where that is. I've got to find out," he said. "So I can finish this."

I knew that the only successful finish, as far as Jackson was concerned, was Rade's death. I felt no moral obligation to interfere with this plan. My goal right now was simple: live through tonight, get up tomorrow morning and live through another day. Crusading for due process of the law on behalf of Rade Vaschenko was a luxury I couldn't afford today.

Actually, I did have a goal of lesser importance. I wanted a shower and a change of clothes. While Jackson spieled words in German, I think it was, into a cell phone, I prowled around and found a small stash of men's clothing folded neatly inside one of the cabinets. I dug through them and came up with a white t-shirt and navy sweat pants. I had toothpaste and minimal cosmetics in my purse, and so, armed with supplies I stole away to the bathroom. A quick snoop inside a mirrored cabinet over the sink uncovered shampoo, body wash and deodorant, all with a French label I wasn't familiar with. Despite the shabby surroundings of this apartment, apparently Jackson had standards when it came to personal care items. I uncapped the body wash and sniffed. It smelled wonderful. I helped myself to all of it, and came out of the bathroom feeling immensely refreshed.

After the day darkened into evening, we shared a meal of fresh bread, cheese, fruit and a very good cabernet. Rather than dine under the harsh fluorescent kitchen light, I'd found some utility candles in a kitchen drawer, lit them, and stuck them on saucers. Jackson, fresh from the shower himself, plugged in a boom box and tuned it to an English speaking station that played an interesting mix of jazz, blues and rock. I was starved, and we ate in companionable silence until Jackson said, out of the blue, "So. Tell me about your little friend, Matthew."

I looked up with a chunk of bread halfway to my lips. "What about him?"

His hair, still damp from the shower, clung to his neck beneath the collar of his denim shirt. He flipped it loose with deft fingers. "Is this a serious thing?"

"Drop it," I said. "He's really very sweet and he's none of your business."

" 'He's really very sweet'," he mimicked. "Well, that answers my question. That phrase is a death knell in any relationship."

I blushed and decided to turn the tables on him. "Okay, now it's my turn to ask a question."

"What, are we playing truth or dare now?"

"You started it. I want to know who you really are, Jackson."

"You mean my name? Or do you want my life history?"

"Just the basics will be fine. Where you came from, who raised you, that sort of thing. And yeah, your name."

He got up, carried our plates to the sink, and turned on the tap to rinse them. "There's not much to tell," he finally said. "I grew up poor, raised mostly by an aunt who already had six kids. My mother - she was a dancer. When I was seven or eight she went off to New York City to 'make it big'. She said she'd be back for me. I don't know what happened to her. The city swallowed her up and I've never been able to trace her. I'm sure she's dead." He said this without any trace of emotion. "And I never knew my father. Anyway, I scored pretty high on my SATs and was the obligatory poor kid on full scholarship at Harvard. I got my MBA there and I swore I'd never be poor again. That's pretty much it. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"You must have had perfect SAT scores to go to Harvard on scholarship." I said. "That's pretty impressive. So how did you end up in your current… occupation?"

"That's two questions, Leese. I get another one after this." He uncorked a second bottle of wine and relocated to the sofa, wine glass and bottle in hand. I followed with the candles and my own glass, and settled in the opposite corner. "How did I end up a criminal, is that what you're asking? Well, I was 'noticed' by a recruiter during my undergraduate days. I started doing small jobs and as I got better, the jobs got bigger. It's what I'm good at. It's what I do. Oh, and my name really is Jackson. Now it's my turn: why did you give up the piano?"

"What? How did you know that?" And then I remembered. "Oh, right."

"When we were in Rade's office that first night at the club. You said you don't play anymore. I want to know why. Did you quit playing after you were attacked?"

"I don't want to-"

"You don't want to talk about it. Right. Lisa, you hug that dirty little secret so close to you it's going to choke you someday."

"It's not a secret. And I didn't ask you to play therapist." I drew my knees up and wrapped my arms around them. "And I did tell you about it."

"Yes, yes you did, Leese," Jackson nodded solemnly. "And then you stabbed me with a pen. A Frankenstein pen, I believe. Why are you laughing?"

"Well, it is pretty funny. And you needed stabbing." Then I sobered, remembering Rade laughed last night about this very thing, about the pen.

"Hey, don't stop. I like to see you laugh. You should do it more often. It looks good on you."

"You're right, though," I admitted. "I did stop playing after – after I was attacked. I didn't feel like I had any music left in me after that. I stopped doing a lot of things." My voice trailed off and I looked down at my wine glass, tracing the rim with my finger.

"Hey Leese?" I looked up. "Promise me when we get out of here you'll play something for me. Anything but "_New World Symphony_". I'm a little burned on Slavic at the moment."

"Yeah. Me, too. But do they have pianos in Federal prison?"

"Why? Are you planning on going to prison?"

I smiled. "Only to visit you."

Then I set my wine glass on the floor and looked directly at Jackson. "Am I going to get out of this alive?"

"I hope so. I hope we both do. I am doing my best to make that happen." His eyes held mine steadily. "Tonight we get to take a break from all of that. But tomorrow it begins again. Be ready, Lisa, and be brave."

We watched the candles burn low, listened to the music, and said nothing for a long while.

_Well my heart knows me better than I know myself  
So I'm gonna let it do all the talking.  
(woo-hoo,woo-hoo)_

Jackson was sprawled in a posture of complete relaxation and I lost myself for a while in the hypnotic glow of the flame.

_but i said no, no, no,no-no-no  
i said no, no, you're not the one for me  
no, no, no,no-no-no  
i said no, no, you're not the one for me_

_(ooooo,woo-hoo)_

"Is that true, Leese?" Jackson's eyes were closed. He sounded dreamy and mellow; the candlelight seemed to soften the angular planes of his face.

"Is what true?"

"What she's singing. That 'I'm not the one for you'." The guitar was bluesy and primal; the singer's voice was like raw honey. I reached across the space between us and closed my fingers around his hand.

"Yeah, it's true." Lifting his hand to my mouth, I closed my lips around his forefinger and traced the tip of it with my tongue. Jackson inhaled sharply; I felt his pulse throb against my tongue.

"What are you doing, Leese?" His voice was low with a fine edge of tension in it.

_And my heart had a problem, in the early hours,  
So I stopped it dead for a beat or two.  
(woo-hoo,woo-hoo)_

I grazed his finger lightly between my teeth and then reluctantly released it, just long enough to say. "I'm not sure."

"You'd better figure it out." His body was relaxed, but deceptively so, I thought. I was put in mind of a tiger pretending disinterest but preparing to leap. "I told you earlier I'd leave you alone. I'm about to change my mind."

"Sometimes it makes sense to reassess," I said softly. "In order to make informed decisions."

"Did you learn that in one of your management seminars?" He glanced over at his hand, still held close to my face. "Let go."

I opened my fingers. He caught my wrists, pinned them to my side and languidly draped himself across the sofa, up and over me. I unfurled my own legs beneath him. He settled himself on top of me and brushed my hair from my face.

"Last chance to fly away to safety," he said. "After this, you're mine."

_No, no, no,no-no-no  
Said no, no, you're not the one for me_

I arched my neck and touched my tongue to the scar on his throat. "I'm not afraid of you," I breathed.

"Just for the record, because I do like to keep my word" he said, moving ever so slightly to fit ever so snugly between my thighs. "Are you asking?"

A startled gasp escaped from my throat; I writhed slightly beneath him. "Yeah. I'm asking."

_Big black horse and a cherry tree  
I can't quite get there cause my heart's forsaken me  
Big black horse and a cherry tree  
I can't quite get there cause my heart's forsaken me_

_---------------------------------------------------_

We suited one another very well. I think I'd always known we would. That was one of those little aspects of the red eye flight I'd filed under deep cover with a label that screamed, "Deny! Deny!" After all, who can reconcile those subtle little hints of attraction with the reality of someone who has held you hostage on a crowded airplane, choked you in a tiny bathroom, and stolen you clear across the Atlantic? It's not really okay within the bounds of normal society to have these feelings for someone who has done these things to you.

Right now, however, I wasn't living in a normal society. And right now I chose to live in the moment. I knew I might not be here tomorrow to worry about it.

We were intense that first time; later we were playful and we laughed together. And in the early hours of the morning while Jackson slept, I rose from the bed, sliding my ankles from beneath Jackson's strong calf muscles, giving up the warmth of his chest against my back. Drawing the discarded bedspread across my shoulders, I sat before the window gazing out at a hangnail moon, just feeling and for once, not thinking. I'd done too much thinking over the past three years. I'd lived on rational thought, steering clear of anything that smacked of strong emotion. Tonight that wasn't so. Tonight I felt everything. And oddly, I felt healed.

After a while he came to me, took my hand, and led me silently back to bed, murmuring, "Having second thoughts?"

"No." I touched his cheek. "None."

"I'm glad," he said, reaching for me again. Afterwards, just before I drifted into sleep, I heard him whisper, "Stay strong. No matter what happens."

-------------------------------------

Sometime before daylight he must have slipped away from me, must have risen from the bed to dress in the clothing he'd scattered so hastily the night before. After that, he must have packed away his personal items - his expensive French toiletries, his hairbrush and toothbrush. He must have stowed his laptop away in a locked cabinet – or maybe he took it with him.

When I awoke, it was full daylight, the police were at the door, and he was gone.

_**A/N – I do not own any lyrics by K. T. Tunstall**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters**_

_**Thanks for all the positive feedback on the previous chapter. I was all worked up from being so creative!**_

_**And big thanks to Royalty09 and emptyvoices for great plot ideas and help!**_

**Chapter 10**

I felt the stirrings of a deep sorrow and a strange lassitude when I awoke to find Jackson gone and the police at the door. I rose slowly from the tangled sheets and gathered my clothing. I had just floated the t-shirt over my head when the door to the apartment burst open and two officers confronted me with their weapons drawn (and aimed at me). My arms went up in the traditional posture of arrestees everywhere. I went quietly, as they say.

I was cuffed and escorted out of the house into a waiting squad car in a series of moves familiar to anyone who has ever seen an episode of "Cops" on TV. A couple of student types with bicycles watched with avid interest and an old woman on a porch across the street sipped from a coffee mug and made no effort to hide her enjoyment of the morning's entertainment. I will admit here that in the series of low points I had hit throughout the week, this was the lowest.

"My name is Lisa Reisert," I said as the white squad car pulled away from the curb. "I want to speak with someone from the American Embassy."

"Your I.D. says your name is Marty Hall," said the male cop with thickly accented English. A burly dark haired man with the red veined nose of a drinker, he rooted through my purse while his partner, a petite blonde woman who had shown no mercy when she tightened my handcuffs, drove. "And you routinely carry stun gun, no?"

The Taser dangled from his thick fingers and I closed my eyes briefly, realizing how difficult this would be to explain. "This all a mistake; please, just get someone from the Embassy for me to speak to."

"Yes, of course it is mistake," he said. "But biggest mistake was getting caught, was it not? Not to worry, though. All this will be sorted out soon."

Knowing it was useless to say anything further, I sank back into the seat, tried to ignore the pinch of the cuffs, and stared through the window. Jackson had left me. Had he turned me in? Did he think I was safer in police custody than with him? Did he trust them not to turn me over to Rade? I chose to believe these things were so, chose to remember the words he whispered to me long before dawn broke. I couldn't bear to do otherwise.

Outside my window, Prague passed by in a kaleidoscope of cheerful morning routine. As we skirted the downtown area, I saw mid morning tourists in sturdy walking shoes stop briefly in front of an ornately decorated church. One of them lifted a camera and snapped a photo of its Gothic spires soaring high into the sapphire morning sky. Further on, a bearded man wearing a red parka played a clarinet in front of a busy sidewalk bistro, his instrument case open to entice contributions. Then we left the downtown area for the freeway and I felt a strong sense of foreboding.

"Where are you taking me?"

Neither of them answered me. I chewed my lip and watched as the freeway traffic thinned out and shopping centers and residential developments gave way to stretches of green pasture and new construction. We left the freeway, traveled down the exit ramp, hooked a left turn at the first intersection and stopped directly beneath the freeway. Ahead of us, I could see a parked white stretch limousine. The dark haired cop angled his chin back toward me and spoke with a voice that held no trace of mercy.

"This is where we take you."

I was escorted into the back seat of the limo. Rade greeted me graciously, I thought, given the circumstances.

"Lisa," he said. "I trust you are well." He laid a hand, with beautifully manicured fingernails, upon my knee. "We will leave cuffs on for now, I think. At least until we arrive home.

----------------------------------

I screamed and raged inside during that long ride back through the city; I wanted only to kill Rade Vaschenko. On the outside, however, I remained silent and stoic. My face betrayed nothing.

The reports Jackson cited last night saying Rade had left his chateau were wrong, of course. He took me back there. Repairs were already underway on the damaged wing, but we avoided that area, going in through a back door, past a bustling hive of workers, into that magnificent front entry hall, and up those curving stairs. This time he took me to his bedroom. Closing the door with ominous finality, he tossed my purse onto the satin cover of a huge canopied bed and turned to me. Tucking a hard finger under my chin, he tilted it upward, forcing me to look at him.

"You smell of him." His eyes seemed made of obsidian and his full, sensuous lips curved downward in disgust. "You are slut."

I spoke finally, through bared teeth. "And I loved every minute of it."

On the night of the torture, he slapped me. This time he used his fists.

Afterward he lifted me from where I lay on the fine wool carpet, employing that same cool detachment he'd used while hitting me, and I found myself seated in an ornately carved, richly upholstered armchair. He dropped with elegant poise, into a matching chair opposite me.

"You disappoint me, Lisa. But -," his shoulders shrugged in a fatalistic gesture, "What is done is done. The question now is where to go from here."

"From here? You can go to hell." I was bent nearly double with pain from a blow to the stomach, I could feel blood trickling from my nose, and I would probably have a black eye. My hands were still cuffed behind my back, but I braced myself as best I could for more blows.

He sighed, rested his elbows on the chair's arms, and linked his fingers together loosely. "You still have strong spirit, Lisa. I admire this. But I wonder how your loyalty will hold up when you know how your lover has betrayed you. Do you wonder how we found you?"

I said nothing.

"Your lover, _Jackson_, he telephoned the police this morning, told them he knew the woman they were looking for - told them where to find you." My heart lurched dangerously; Rade continued. "I have friends on the force, Lisa. Some owe me favors. You understand how these things work. Better to call me, I think, than put you through trauma of murder charge in foreign country. So they do me favor and I do you favor – I bring you here instead."

"I didn't kill anyone. You know that."

He sighed and reached behind him. The expertly razored layers of his jet black hair swirled well past the collar on his leather jacket as he pulled a cell phone from his back pocket. "Unfortunately, Mr. Rippner is your only witness to this claim of innocence and he has left the Czech Republic. He boarded early morning Lufthansa flight to Munich. I have video of his departure."

He flipped open the cell phone and showed me Jackson walking through what looked like a boarding gate, with a small carry-on bag in one hand. He wore the same clothing I had helped him cast aside last night. I felt dizzy and breathless suddenly. I focused on my breathing, determined not to pass out.

"Munich is good place for Mr. Rippner. He could make fresh start, new contacts. Unfortunately, one of my employees will see to it he does not make it out of airport alive. I see pain in your eyes, Lisa. Your lover has abandoned you, yes? I feel no sympathy. You made bad choice and now you must face consequences. When I got call this morning, I had to make decision about you. Before you abused my hospitality, I had big plans for you. I put you, as they say, on pedestal. Now you have betrayed my trust. Still, I think perhaps you will please me for a while. When I tire of you, I will perhaps give you to my men. Until then, you will think of ways to keep my interest fresh. You are clever girl, very creative.

"Now I will remove cuffs and you will have bath. Wash away your infidelity. I will have your suitcase returned to you so you can make yourself pretty once more. Tonight you will lie in my bed and you will moan beneath me like whore you are."

After he freed my wrists, he said, "If you try to leave me again, you will be shot. That will be the end of it." He left me alone, then, and I crept into the adjoining bathroom and threw up. I lay on the marble floor for a long while, resting my head against the cool marble tile and wondering if I would find the will to get up again.

After a while, I forced myself to my feet and walked back into the bedroom. I tried the door and found it locked. I went to stand at the bedroom window. Below me, at the edge of the terrace where we had dined on hamburgers and s'mores, a uniformed guard looked up, saw me at the window, and lifted his rifle just high enough to let me know why he was there.

I think this was when I finally gave up. I was tired; tired of fighting, tired of running, and tired of hiding and my mind now turned in a direction it had never been before. I thought about the pills Dr. Finch had given me in what seemed like another life altogether. I wondered how many it would take... I went to my purse and dug around for the little orange bottle. My hand closed over something hard and metal. I drew it out, looking down at one of the prepaid cell phones Jackson had used yesterday, wondering why it was in my purse. I tried unsuccessfully to power it on; I pried off the battery cover and a small black device fell into my hand.

I put the phone back together, and then turned my thoughts once again to the bottle of pills. I wondered if I could use them against Rade - crush them up maybe, feed them to him somehow. I wondered how many pills it would take to kill a large Russian man.

Just then, the bedroom door opened and blonde Aleksei stumbled in, followed by a man in a hardhat carrying a clipboard. As I watched, the man kicked the door closed behind him, tossed aside the clipboard, and slammed the butt of a handgun into the back of Aleksei's head. He ripped a fake moustache from his upper lip, ditched a pair of Oakley's and the hard hat, and stepped over the fallen Aleksei.

He regarded me steadily from eyes the color of a summer sky and asked, "Shall we kill the Russian together, Leese?"


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters!**_

_**Sorry it took me so long to update – choreographing action scenes is not my strong point. Thanks to emptyvoices, royalty09, and my favorite National Guard soldier for extensive consultation and help!**_

**Chapter 11**

When Jackson walked through Rade's bedroom door disguised as a building inspector, I found myself speechless for the first time in my life. I dropped the bottle of sleeping pills I still held and glanced down at the prepaid cell phone, understanding now that Jackson had tracked me here, that the weird black thing hidden there could only be a tracking device.

Before I could decide what I wanted to do more, hit Jackson or kiss him, he strolled over to me and studied my face, taking in the damage I'd sustained under Rade's tender care. But his eyes were flint and I could see in his face no trace of last night's lover. When he spoke, his voice was restrained, low and even.

"I know we have things to talk about," he said, "but they'll have to wait. When we get out of this – and we will – you can slap me, scream at me, and say whatever you need to say. But right now you need to listen to me. If you want to live through this, you need to do exactly what I say without stopping to figure out whether it's the right thing to do. You have to trust me. This is what I do, and I'm good at it.

I started to speak. He laid a finger across my lips and said, "But know this: I won't leave you again.

Angling the handle of the pistol toward me, he said, "Do you know how to load it?" I shook my head. He pulled a cartridge from his pocket and showed me, snicking it crisply into place. "You have 15 rounds to a clip," he told me. "Take it. And keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. And don't shoot me, okay?"

"I'm going to need 15 rounds?" I asked as I took the pistol and gripped it tightly with both hands.

"Maybe you won't need any. Maybe Rade comes back, we're waiting for him, and that's the end of it. But…" he shrugged and pulled another pistol from his waistband.

"But what?"

"But Rade is a cagey son of a bitch. He didn't get where he is now by being dumb. But according to Aleksei here, Rade has left to investigate a little problem at one of his clubs. I suspect they will find it to be arson." Jackson shook his head slightly, as if bemoaning the sad state of the world. "But he isn't dumb and he could be back here any minute. Isn't that right, Aleksei?"

Aleksei, groaning, had begun to stir. Now he looked up at us and grinned horribly. "Suck my – "

Jackson's Diesel clad foot connected solidly with Aleksei's nose. "Maybe some other time, buddy."

Bemused, I watched blood pour from Aleksei's nose onto Rade's nice wool carpet. "So we just what, wait for him and shoot him in cold blood?"

"You'd rather wait until he shoots at you?" He shook his head and gestured toward Aleksei. "Your incessant concern for mankind is touching, but sadly misplaced in this case. You'd die, babe. Watch him, would you?"

I pointed the pistol toward Aleksei's head. Maybe, I thought, I should be aiming at his chest. I really didn't know. Jackson strode toward the bathroom and asked, "You have a baby sitter outside your window, don't you?"

"You mean the guy with the gun? Yeah; why?"

I heard Jackson smash the window glass and then I heard two rapid shots. At that moment, Aleksei's hand started creeping toward the edges of his suit jacket. "Don't make me shoot you," I warned, desperately hoping he wouldn't.

He spit out a bloody tooth, grinned, and kept reaching. As I steeled myself to pull the trigger, I heard a rapid '_phthum phthum'. _Aleksei quivered and was still. Jackson, lowering his gun, said, "If you hesitate, you die."

I nodded and hoped he didn't see the tremor in my hands, hoped the tremor would go away. "Did you have to kill the guard?"

"Yes."

"You told me once you were a lousy shot," I said.

"Sometimes I get lucky," he said. "Look, Leese. There is going to be more blood and there's going to be more killing. _You_ may have to kill someone. I want you to remember what Rade did to you and think about what he wanted to do to you. He didn't bring you here to serve you afternoon tea. Keep those things in your mind and don't hesitate. Hesitation, as you just saw, will cost you your life. There is not a doubt in my mind that you can do this, Leese." He grabbed my chin and kissed me hard.

I kissed him back and when he let me go, I slapped him.

"Got that out of your system?" He grinned. "Good; now let's go to war."

---------------------------

We edged our way down a long hallway, pistols in what I considered alert position, toward the back stairs at the end of that wing. We saw no one and heard nothing but steady hammering from the other side of the house. We took the stairs down to the ground floor. Jackson, who seemed familiar with the layout of the lower part of the house, led the way through a labyrinth of hallways in the back quadrant, stopping finally beside a closed doorway. He turned the handle, kicked the door open with his foot, and, after determining no one was in there, I followed him into a large room paneled in dark wood and smelling heavily of sweet pipe tobacco.

Two walls of the room were lined with books. Heavy drapes, drawn to let in the mid day light, covered mullioned windows on adjacent walls. Leather chairs, done in that color I think is called oxblood, stood before a stone mantled fireplace at one end of the room and a large desk dominated the other. A set of closed double doors bisected the library shelves on one wall. They would lead, I was sure, the grand entry hall.

After Jackson determined that the other set of doors was locked, we took up a position by the front windows to await Rade's return. We didn't speak; a wooden globe sat on a small table between the windows, and as we waited, Jackson spun the globe back and forth with carefully restrained impatience.

I don't know how long we waited; it couldn't have been long, but it felt like ages. When the white limo finally came sweeping through the gate, I felt a strong shiver of terror. I swallowed hard and clamped down on it as best I could. The car stopped in front of the stone staircase, the back door opened, and Katya stepped out, wearing a bulky sweater, leather pants, and knee high boots. The two tawny Weimaraners leaped out of the seat behind her, hitting the grass with lithe grace.

"Fuck!" Jackson said, as she closed the car door. "He sent her instead! He's still –" The globe next to his hand exploded. He swiveled toward the door we'd come in from and began firing, crossing the room quickly and tossing something through the air toward me. I leaped forward, caught the back-up clip of ammo in my left hand, and stashed it in the pocket of my sweat pants.

"Stay back," he yelled, reaching the doorway. He flattened himself against the wall, slammed in a new clip and moved into the hallway, spraying bullets. Then there was silence. Easing back into the room, he kicked the door shut, saying, "Peter's down." And then he stopped, frozen, with his gun aimed straight at me. His face was expressionless.

Even before the arm clamped around my neck and before I felt cold metal against my temple, I felt the hair lift on the back of my neck. "Drop it, whore," Rade whispered into my ear.

"No!"

He cracked the gun barrel against my temple. "Last chance." Blinding pain dazed me and I sagged back, dropping the gun.

"It's me you want to kill, Comrade. Not her."

"I want you both, Rippner, but one at a time. I like to spread my pleasure out. Drop your gun, and maybe I let you breathe another moment."

Jackson's lips curved upward in a disdainful smirk and, although his gun never wavered, he seemed to relax slightly.

"Rade!" It was Katya's voice, shrill and coming from the hall, behind us. She spoke to him in Russian, and he laughed and said something back to her. I didn't know what the words meant, but his tone was contemptuous.

"Rade." Her voice was firmer this time, and her words slower. This time one of her words caught my attention. She confirmed what I thought I heard when in English, she said, "Miss Reisert, I am placing Rade Vaschenko under arrest. Should anything go wrong, you will please not shoot me. I am Interpol agent."

As I felt a strong wellspring of hope rise in me, Rade laughed again, a deep, belly laugh, and arced us just slightly in her direction. "Fuck Interpol!" he spat and laughed again. "Fuck Interpol is what I did, yes, Katya? Over and over, night after night, my little slut; until you begged me to stop. You think you are match for me now, Interpol whore?" Rade, I noticed, had a limited English vocabulary when it came to talking to women.

He shot Jackson then, and as I screamed, he twisted, swung his gun hand across my face and shot Katya. The force of the bullet knocked her backward a few feet, just as her own pistol went off. She fell, a petite bundle of black and white, onto the white marble tile, and was still. Rade tightened his arm on my neck, choking off my screams. To my right, Jackson was on the ground, trying to stand up. His gun was still trained on Rade, who laughed and said, "Throw the gun away, Mr. Rippner. You have no chance. She is between you and me, and you must shoot her to get to me."

Jackson gripped the top of a leather chair for support, but his gun hand held steady and his eyes were glacial.

"Is interesting dilemma, yes, Lisa? Your Mr. Rippner must decide. Will he shoot you himself? Or will he give you to me?" Rade dragged me backwards, toward the double doors. "When I finish with her, Mr. Rippner, I will come for you, bring you to her, so you see what I have done to her. And then you will join her in death. Unless you wish to shoot her now, and then we will finish this, one on one, like men."

Something wet dripped onto my shoulder, and then down my arm. I looked up at Rade – looked into that terrible, smug face, and saw that Katya had winged him; a bullet had grazed the side of his head and blood dripped steadily from it.

Jackson lowered the pistol toward the floor and Rade paused in his backward retreat.

My hand closed on the cartridge clip in my sweat pants pocket. I took a quick breath and clamped my teeth on Rade's forearm. I bit down hard and at the same time drove my elbow into his ribs. Rade was a big man, a very strong man, and I could not hope to best him in a physical contest. I could only hope to startle him enough to make him loosen his grip briefly. As he yanked his arm instinctively away from my teeth, I twisted around, whacked hard at the side of his neck with the edge of my hand, the way I'd been shown in kickboxing classes, slung my arm back and slammed the cartridge clip with all my might against his windpipe. His arm flew toward his neck and he gasped for air.

"Move, Lisa, move! Go, go, go!" Jackson shouted. As I moved away from Rade, I heard a shot. I whirled, snatched up my own pistol and turned to see Rade running through the doorway, into the hall. Blood dripped from his gun hand and his gun was still spinning on the hardwood floor where he'd dropped it. I spit blood from my mouth and picked up Rade's gun with my free hand. With Jackson yelling at me to stop, I started after him. I knew I had to kill him. I wanted to kill him more than I'd ever wanted anything in my life. I bounded through the hall as Rade darted through the open door and down the marble steps. I followed him outside and stopped at the top of the stairs, momentarily distracted as a truck full of highly alarmed construction workers whipped down the driveway and flew out through the open gate. As the dust cleared, I saw the tower guard taking aim at me. I danced to one side to throw his aim off, looked down the sights of my gun at him and squeezed the trigger. He went down. I started down the steps, intent on tracking Rade, but stopped, suddenly aware of an ominous sound.

Katya, who I later learned wore Kevlar under that bulky sweater, stood on the veranda. The two huge Weimaraners were seated elegantly at her feet, growling fiercely.

"Miss Reisert," she said, her face oddly peaceful. "I will finish this."

In her hand she held a large, black leather glove. As I watched, she dropped to her knees and offered it to each of the dogs, which, one after the other sniffed it politely and returned their attention to Katya. Then she spoke quietly to them. As one, they leapt into action, growling and snarling, and disappeared in the direction Rade had gone.

His screams reached my ears very quickly.

A tear appeared on Katya's cheek, but she wiped it away very quickly. In the distance I heard sirens.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters!**_

_**(Nic suggested I mention that the inspiration for Katya's character came from the movie "xXx")**_

_**I'm on the home stretch now, so things are winding down.**_

_**I'll post an epilogue tomorrow or the next day.**_

_**Thank you royalty09 and emptyvoices for your help!**_

**Chapter 12**

Activity around the chateau grew less deadly, but more chaotic, very quickly. The police were first on the scene, but paramedics and fire trucks poured onto the grounds right behind them.

Katya was a woman transformed. Gone was the sultry little Goth chick; in her place was a self-assured intelligent woman completely in charge of the crime scene around her. (She even seemed taller to me, but that might have been because of the stiletto heels on her knee-high boots.) I learned later that Interpol's role is traditionally one of support rather than direct law enforcement, but Katya directed the local police with self appointed authority, and to my surprise, the local cops allowed themselves to be directed.

"I understand, Miss Reisert, that you are in possession of a passport under an alias," she said as she snapped shut a set of handcuffs around the bony wrists of a surprised, but non-combative Jackson. When I nodded, she went on to suggest that I use that name for the duration of my stay in the Czech Republic. "I will see that you get back to U.S. safely. You will not be arrested. You have my word on that."

Make no mistake; I was thrilled at these words, but I was also more than a little taken aback by them. I wondered why she would go out of her way to do such a thing for me. I watched her crook a hand under Jackson's elbow, lever him up from the floor with surprising strength, and steer him into Rade's leather library chair to await the attention of the paramedics. He shook his hair back, cast his eyes up at her, and blithely offered to trade her that warehouse full of weapons Rade wanted for the same amnesty she offered me.

"You are sweet to offer," she said, patting his shoulder. "But no."

When Rade shot Jackson, the bullet clipped his calf, knocking him to his knees, but amazingly, considering how skinny Jackson's legs were, missed the bone. Now he let a paramedic bandage his leg, but declined a trip to the hospital.

And so after the medics taped up Jackson's leg, after they'd mopped the blood away from my face and dabbed salve on the cut above my eye, and after they hauled away the injured and dead (I understood Rade to be mangled beyond recognition, but still breathing), a limping Jackson was put into the back of a squad car.

"See you soon, Leese!" The sunny smile lighting his face seemed more appropriate for a trip to a beach than a jail cell.

I tried and failed to match his smile. I felt off balance and edgy as I watched the cruiser roll through the gates. A hand touched me lightly on the shoulder and I turned. Katya handed me my purse. "I had your luggage brought from upstairs. Ride with me, Miss Reisert."

I rolled my suitcase along behind me as we walked around the side of the house toward that barn of a garage where I had tasered (but not killed) a guard only the day before. When Katya sidestepped a discarded latex glove, I looked down and noticed the trampled grass. I was pretty sure this was where the dogs caught up to Rade. "What will happen to them? The dogs, I mean."

"I will find good home for them," Katya said. "I will see they are cared for. They were kinder to me than their owner."

She drove us in one of Rade's more sedate vehicles, a silver Mercedes that I imagined he might have used for his more conservative appointments, like maybe visits to his banker, or for bribing elected officials over lunch. I tried to relax against the supple leather seat but I still felt buzzed. It troubled me that I felt so wired and even somewhat elated after doing something so lethal.

"You miss him, yes?" Katya asked, interrupting my reverie.

I started to deny it, but something very kind in her face brought out the truth. "I know it doesn't make any sense. I should be glad that this is almost over - and I am. But yes, I miss him."

"Jackson did me big favor." Her lips curved into a soft smile.

"Did he?" I murmured, looking out, as it seemed I had done countless times now, at the city streets of Prague through a car window. I wondered if I would ever come back here; ever have the chance to see the city as a tourist. We jetted up a freeway ramp, away from downtown.

"I was with Rade for long time. It was job for me, but I was so good at pretending, I fooled even me. I lost sight of job and became who Rade thought I was. The night we went to club, the night Rade offered me like party favor to Jackson, we went back to house, Jackson and I. We talked for long time."

"Jackson knew I was Interpol agent. Don't ask me how; he seems to just know these things. He reminded _me_ I was Interpol agent. For many months now, I had evidence against Rade, all I needed for many indictments. Yet I did not take action. That night, however, I made decision to end this, to return to my real life. Had I done this before, you would have been spared all of this."

We passed beneath an overhead sign with the logo of an airplane on it. Katya deftly switched lanes and exited the freeway.

"So I owe debt to you. I have paid debt to Jackson already for this wake up call."

"Oh? How did you do that?" I asked, striving for a tone of nonchalance, and wondering if I really wanted to hear this.

"Is not what you think, Miss Reisert," Her laugh had the shimmer of a thousand tiny bells. "Jackson wanted only you that night. I gave him access not to me, but to house – I disabled security, let him steal information from Rade about contacts, bank accounts, assets. That is all. And now, I have brief detour to make, if you do not mind."

We had reached the airport, and Katya cruised past private landing strips and hangars, much as the limo driver in New York had done after I landed there – how many days ago? I counted back and was stunned to realize it was only four. The sun cast a warm glow in the mid-afternoon sky and my stomach rumbled suddenly, reminding me I hadn't eaten anything since the bread and cheese I shared with Jackson the night before. I knew suddenly that I would miss Katya, that she was someone I wished to have known better. I wondered what life had in store for her now. I wondered when her heart would heal.

She slowed outside a large private hangar and pulled to a stop behind a squad car. Jackson sat on the trunk. Two cops, smoking cigarettes and lounging against the front bumper, waved to Katya. She said, "Looks like Jackson found someone to trade his weapons to."

------------------------------------

"You should email your father," Jackson said, "Let him know you're okay. You've been out of touch for a couple of days."

The pilot, on standby since our arrival in Prague, had arrived at the airport within the hour. We breezed through customs and were now several hours into our flight, having touched down in Germany to top off the Gulfstream's fuel tanks. Now it dawned on me that I hadn't spared a moment's thought for anyone back home for at least the past two days. Furthermore, I couldn't bring myself to focus on them now.

I couldn't really focus on anything. After plowing through two bags of potato chips, a peanut butter sandwich, and an unmentionable number of Oreos, I watched Jackson sleep (he'd tossed back a couple of pain pills), flipped through a few business magazines and a big book of "Far Side" cartoons, and tried to nap in a reclining chair. I couldn't relax, though, and I kept getting up to pace from one end of the cabin to the other.

When Jackson woke up, he watched me fidget for a while before flipping open the laptop and suggesting I email my dad. I sat down and called up my Yahoo account. I saw messages from my dad, my mom, and from Cynthia and Matthew. I felt overwhelmed. I just couldn't deal with them right then. I closed the laptop and prowled over to look out the window once more. The day was fading into night and all I could see was indigo – sky and ocean blended together.

Jackson hobbled over to the small kitchen area that also served as bar, and poured something clear and lethal looking into a glass. "It's gin," he said, bringing it to me. "I figure you're probably off vodka, it being a Russian thing."

"I don't want it." I shook my head, hard enough to make my hair swirl.

He moved in and stood so close to me that the glass touched both his shirt and mine.

"Drink it," he said softly. After a silent, war-like exchange of glares, I finally backed down and took the glass from him. In a fine show of defiance and bravado, I took a big mouthful of gin and, of course, choked on it. Jackson, trying to be helpful, pounded me on the back until I turned around and slapped at him. After that, I took smaller sips, but drank it quickly and handed him the empty glass. "I'd like another one, please."

"You thought I'd left you, didn't you? When you woke up without me." He tilted a yellow-labeled bottle and I watched the gin splash into the glass. "It had to be that way. You had to believe that or Rade never would have believed it."

"I saw a photo – on his cell phone. He showed me a picture of you at the airport, getting on a plane."

"I boarded the plane and changed clothes in the bathroom. I added the moustache and got right back off the plane. It wasn't easy. Those airplane bathrooms are so cramped. Don't you think so, Leese?"

"That doesn't really strike me as being funny right now."

"All right." He handed me the drink. "Let's get to it, then. We need to get it said: I used you as bait. It was the best way to do what had to be done."

"Because the deal went bad and you were trying to cover your ass. You wanted your job back."

"Yes, I wanted my job back." He backed up to perch on one of the worktables, taking the weight off of his injured leg. "And, Rade was obsessed with you, and it was the only way to stop him. And, I came back for you. I told you I would get you home safe, and now I'm keeping that promise."

"Are you really going to take me home?" I stared into eyes that seemed bottomless, searching for honesty.

"Yes." His eyes, unflinching, met mine.

"You told me before that I'm 'bad for business', that you can't afford to let me live."

"I've taken care of that."

"How?" My hands started to shake; I set the glass down. "How am I going to get through each day from now on without wondering if it's my last; without wondering the same thing about my father?"

"Just trust –"

"No. I need for you to tell me how this is going to work."

"All right." He took something from beneath his jacket and laid it on the table. "This is your gun. It killed a guard today and your fingerprints are all over it. You handed it to me when you came back into the house. Do you remember? Good. Katya confiscated my weapon, but she didn't frisk me. So theoretically I can connect you to that killing if I have to. Now, I won't do that, but knowing I can, will keep you from going to the authorities about me, or about anything else you learned during this little trip. That's all the assurance my company will need. No one will bother you."

"You kidnapped me, Jackson." My voice was a shaky whisper. Tears began to sting my eyes; I tried furiously to blink them back. "I saw a man tortured. I was beaten up and nearly raped, _and_ I killed a man. Everything that has happened to me this week is because of what you did to me."

He stepped closer to me and lowered his voice to a near whisper. "I told you I would get you out of this and I did."

I shoved him back toward the table. "You shouldn't have done any of this to me."

"I know. I'm sorry." His voice was calm and even.

"What good does sorry do me, Jackson?" I shoved him again and whacked him on the arm. Tears streamed down my face. "Sorry doesn't change anything."

"I know."

I whacked him with both hands. When he made no move to defend himself, I hit at him again and again, and finally cried out, "Damn it, Jackson, why won't you fight back?"

"Stop now." His voice was soft.

"I can't."

He caught my flailing hands, then, circled my wrists tightly with his own hands, and twisted me around. He pulled me snugly against his chest and held me tightly, much as if I was in a straitjacket. I cried and he just kept holding me. We sank to the floor together and I cried until I had nothing left. He brushed my hair from my face, rested his chin on my head, and just held me. After a long while, I fell asleep against him.


	13. Epilogue

_**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters!**_

_**And I'm going to miss them all - I'm so sad.**_

_**Thanks to royalty09, emptyvoices, and everyone who reviewed.**_

**Epilogue**

It is Saturday, nearly a week since I left home, and for now, I am coming to the end of my journaling. I suspect I will have much more to wrestle with in the days to come. I am on a commercial flight from New York to Miami, the one I was originally scheduled to return home on, and we are set to land in about half an hour.

With the time change, it was mid-morning on Friday when Jackson and I landed in New York City. Before we landed, Jackson reserved a suite online at the Lux New York and offered to send me home on the next available flight to Miami. After a brief internal debate, I chose to stay with him.

We spent a little more than twenty-four hours together there. Jackson left our rooms just long enough to get my original luggage and my I.D. back from the woman, Marty Hall, who successfully posed as me here in New York all week. I opened my suitcase, looked at the clothes I'd packed there, and felt they belonged to someone I no longer know.

"So now what, Jackson? Where do you go from here?" I said this to Jackson this morning, in the last hour I hadn't wanted to ask; hadn't wanted to face any of this, but now it couldn't be avoided.

"_Back to work."_

"_How can you go back there? They offered to give your job to Rade if he killed you!"_

"_It's the nature of the business. I took out the competition, so I get to keep the job. I won."_

"_So you're going right back to being who you were. You don't have to do this, you know. There are other … vocations."_

"_This is who I am. I can't be anyone else."_

"_You could try."_

"_If I could, I would; for you."_

"_You made me care, Jackson."_ And this seemed to me the cruelest thing of all.

"_I care, too. You know that. And it doesn't have to be this way. I want you with me."_

"We can't be together." In the end that is what it came down to. _"Our lives don't fit."_

"_We can make them fit, Leese. Stay with me."_

"_No."_

This spiral notebook is tattered and worn now, as am I. I feel very alone, very fragile and I miss Jackson terribly. I don't know if I will ever see him again. It is best, I believe, if I don't, and he has agreed to respect my feelings on this. This is a private grief; I can tell no one, not even Dr. Finch, about it. But I will survive it. I have survived much worse.

The plane is circling now for its final descent. Through the window, Florida looks hot and sunny. Although it is still spring, after the chill of Prague, it will feel like full summer to me. Soon I will see my father and Cynthia. I have my lies ready, for I know I will have much to explain. I will have to see Matthew, too, at some point, but I am going to plead exhaustion tonight. I need to be alone.

I feel claustrophobic when I think about going back to work on Monday, back to the civilized, customer service driven world of the Lux Atlantic. I'm sure Dr. Finch would put a label of some kind on this feeling, but I'm not sure it needs a label. I'm not sure this is a bad thing. I'm thinking I may have outgrown my former life, and that it would be somewhat dishonest for me to try to step back into it as if I'd merely been out sick with the flu for a few days. I'm thinking that after I've had a chance to rest and recover, I might pursue a career change. Maybe Mr. Keefe is the person I should talk to about this.

For now, though, it's time to put this notebook away.

---------------------------

**Document1 – Microsoft Word**

I downloaded a song just now. It's a song I'll always associate with Lisa, the one about the black horse and the cherry tree. I can't seem to get it out of my head, so I thought about Lisa, and how 'journaling', as she called it, seemed to calm her troubled mind. I'm not a big fan of self-analysis - I don't read Dr. Phil (not often anyway) - but my plane doesn't land for another three hours and I have a lot of time to fill in so I thought I'd try it myself.

I guess this is about Lisa. She's been in my head now for months. I thought taking her along on this little trip with me would cure that, but it seems to have had the opposite effect.

I have never allowed a woman to interfere with my job before, but Lisa changed all that the first time we actually met. (I don't count those weeks before, when I did the footwork for the Keefe job, because although I thought I knew her by then, it became clear that night on the plane just how wrong I was about that.)

After she nearly killed me, I thought I hated her, but I guess I was wrong about that, too. I have to admit, she's not the kind of woman I'm normally attracted to. I usually like (and get) my women super-model gorgeous and malleable. I'm not bragging (well, maybe just a little bit), but they need to know and accept their place in my life. If they don't, then it's over. It has to be that way because of the business I'm in. I can't afford emotional involvement. It could get me killed. And that is exactly my point about Lisa Reisert.

The night Rade Vaschenko sent me home with his woman and took Lisa with him, I should have let him indulge his ridiculous obsession with her. It was clear by then that our deal was going south. I should have just taken my weapons and faded on out of there – alone.

Instead, I took her with me. I told myself it made sense, that it would give me time to re-organize, and give her a chance to put another one of her little escape plans into effect. It would have been convenient for me if she had done that, actually, since by then I didn't need her at all.

Of course that didn't quite work outeither, andneutralizing Rade became the only valid option. So I used her as bait. That was cold and calculated on my part, but that's how I operate. I was completely unprepared, though, for how hard it was for me to leave her side early that morning while she slept peacefully, trusting me. I almost didn't go, but I knew I had to.

The next time I saw her, her face was all battered and she was sitting on Rade's bed counting out sleeping pills. All I wanted to do was to hold her and make it all right. I couldn't. I couldn't afford to. I had to be cold, and force her into action to save her life (and mine).

It really wasn't until after the firefight, when she walked back into that prize mansion of Rade's, thoughthat I knew I loved her. She was barefoot and wearing my sweats and tee shirt. She had blood on her face and a gun in each hand and she looked more beautiful to me than any woman I've ever known.

Well, I think that's enough introspection. And I also think that after I wind things up at the home office, I'll fly out to Miami and drop in on her. I promised her I wouldn't, but I lied. I only lie when it serves me, and in this case I think it will serve both of us very well.

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**A/N to Deepy: _I actually finished something! You can, too._**


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